Passions of Demons
by EGrace
Summary: It took Buffy two whole days to defeat Dracula at the beginning of her sophomore year.  But was that really the great, the legendary, Vlad III Dracula?
1. Chapter 1

Title: Passions of Demons

Author: Elizabeth Grace

Dated: March 2007

Environ:_Passions of Demons_ is set at the very beginning of _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_'s fifth season and _Angel_'s second. The Prologue takes place during Buffy's season premiere, "Buffy vs. Dracula," immediately following the scene where Riley visited Spike to pump him for information on Dracula. The story then diverges from Buffy canon at the end of the episode,_before_ Dawn appears.

Categories: English / 51,910 words / Adventure; Angst; Drama; Horror; Suspense

Rating: "M" This story is intended for mature audiences age 16 and over. It contains scenes of violence and explicit sexuality and includes some coarse language.

Disclaimer:_Passions of Demons_ is written by a fan, for fans, for the sole purpose of enjoyment. It is not intended to infringe upon copyrights held by Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Warner Brothers, UPN, 20th Century Fox, "Buffy vs. Dracula" author Marti Noxon, or any other licensed holders of copyrights to _Buffy the Vampire Slayer _or_ Angel_. There is also a teensy little _homage_ to BBC's _East Enders_; again, no copyright infringement is intended.

Distribution: I'd be honored if fellow fans create links on their sites to this story or share it with even more fans via distribution lists. I would ask only that you give credit (or blame, as the case may be) to the author. A little advance warning of your intentions would also be nice.

Feedback: Definitely welcome, whether good, bad, or indifferent. "That which does not kill me will only make me stronger."

Acknowledgements: Thanks must go to Nancy and Ed and everyone in our old Buffy and Angel chat group. I would never have written this if they hadn't egged me on.

Author's Preface: Passions of Demons started out as a dare. To be blunt, I hadn't enjoyed Buffy's fourth season. I couldn't understand why all of the strong characters I had fallen in love with were floundering; I had an especially difficult time accepting Willow's sexual about-face, (not because a major character was coming out of the closet, but because I felt cheated that the audience hadn't been privy to so much as a single moment of reflection or doubt about her changing sexual identity); and lastly, I'd also taken an extreme dislike to the entire Initiative plot, with its premise that all soldiers are apparently idiots. As a former Air Force officer, that just didn't sit well with me at all. I tuned in to the fifth season hoping to see the tight, original, highly character-driven stories of the first three seasons that had so thoroughly hooked me. When Buffy spiked Dracula in less than an hour, I was inordinately disappointed at the waste of what should have been one of the Slayer's most powerful foes. And when Dawn appeared out of thin air and the shallow, shrill_Glory_ turned out to be the season's big villain, I'd had enough--and said so in no uncertain terms to the Buffy/Angel chat group I was involved with. First they dared me to come up with "something better." When I thought I might have, they encouraged me to write it.

Prologue

The rage boiled over and he leapt, transformed, twisting in the air to seize the crossbow. He landed, pivoted, fired, and the bolt shot home.

Harmlessly. In the door swinging slowly shut. Spike snarled, and shattered the crossbow across the sepulcher.

_Pretty boy whoreson, standing there so smugly._ Spike clenched his fists and stalked restlessly across the crypt, the taste of ashes rising in his throat. He wouldn't soon forget the humiliation of letting that useless bastard face William the Bloody down. Two minutes. Two. That's all that pathetic piece of human flesh would last against him. Once this fucking chip was out of his head, Riley's would be the first blood he tasted. Spike swore it.

New moon. His favorite night of the month. His blood pounded, the night calling to him, and his lips stretched in a vicious grin. Spike grabbed his long leather coat, shrugging into it on the way out of the crypt. Darkness enveloped him, caressing his skin, singing in his ears, shadowing his vision. Exciting him and consuming him until he ached with the need for release. Spike ran, hard and fast, stalking the deepest pools of blackness, searching.

He needed to hunt. He needed to _feed._ The scent of human flesh and blood was intoxicating and he followed it boldly, licking his lips. Hot, rich, savory blood, filling his mouth, gushing down his throat, dripping across his chin. Bringing strength and power and _freedom._ His hands itched to clutch the struggling body, crushed and broken and helpless beneath him, going limp in his hands as he drank and drank and drank.

_Riley. It would be Riley first, begging for mercy, gasping and--_

Spike bit his lip, distracting himself with his own pain, his own blood. _Damn the Initiative to the depths of Hell._ He couldn't even _think_ of the violence he wanted to do to that son of a bitch without pain, spiraling through his head and stealing his strength and his will.

And his will was to _kill. Tonight. Over and over, until he was sated and soaked in blood. He was William the Bloody!_ He'd fed on two Slayers, hunted and terrorized as his pleasure demanded--whole families--entire towns--_bloody fucking continents. Tonight, he would kill!_ With a burst of demon-born strength he sprang to the rooftop, pacing unseen beneath the low, dark skies. He raised his face to the wind and inhaled, sifting the scents of the night, _searching_…

_There._ He smelled fear, _there._ Exhilaration coursed through his veins and he sprinted and jumped and climbed and finally he was _there_, the fight unfolding in the alley below.

Spike threw his head back and soundlessly laughed. _How perfect. A college boy, against three Irriss demons._ The idiot was right to be petrified.

It was over in seconds. The demons fell to the corpse, feeding, and Spike's gut tightened. Flesh tore, and he clenched his fists and imagined Riley's lifeless body, ripped and shredded. Pressure built in his head, warning him, but blood fountained, the scent filling his nostrils, and he remembered--savoring the hot, harsh tang of blood--human blood--_it would be Riley's blood first in his mouth_. He braced for it, but searing pain lanced through his skull and spasmed his limbs and Spike howled his fury and his agony and leapt.

He landed on the first Irriss, snarling triumphantly as the _crack_ of the demon's broken back ricocheted through his own body. The anguished pulsing in his head vanished, but Spike whirled and seized and defiantly pictured Riley's neck in his hands. Viciously he twisted, lips stretched in a feral grin to feel and hear the _snap_ of death beneath his hands. _Riley's death. He would destroy that fucking soldier boy with pain the likes of which he'd nev--_

Blazing, burning--_pain!_--exploding in his head, his eyes, his chest--but rage and madness rose with it and arced and sizzled together and he hurled the body the length of the alley.

_"I am William the Bloody!"_ he shouted, circling, crouching, daring the third and final demon to close with him.

_"I will hunt--"_ A savage kick to the knee as the Irriss charged.

_"And feed--"_ Spike ground the word out, fighting through the red, throbbing fusion of agony and anger hazing his vision and sucking the breath from him. The Irriss feinted right and Spike reached, grabbed, twisted--

_"And kill as I please!"_ With a brutal wrench he broke the demon's arm. The Irriss howled and lunged furiously. Spike backpedaled, grappling for a hold to take the demon down, but everything was slick with human gore and blood and he slipped and fell, hard, beneath the demon's weight, his head _smacking_the--

_Flames--sizzling--searing--erupting in his head, his eyes, surging the length of his body_ and Spike screamed, seizing, arching so violently that the demon's pressing weight disappeared. Abruptly Spike's vision cleared. He had one frozen, breathless moment of clarity and then the Irriss was on him again, teeth bared.

Spike grabbed the demon to him and _heaved_ them both upward, twisting in the air to _thrust_ the demon against the wall, shattering the skull, the ribs, the hips. With a wet, gurgling sigh the demon sank to the ground.

Spike stepped dizzily back, breathing hard, luxuriating in the sights and sounds of death.

_"Oh my God."_

Just a horrified whisper, but Spike spun, taking in the dark figure, trembling, backing away to the street, reeking of alcohol and _human flesh_ and _mortal fear_ and the bloodlust and the _hunger_ rose hazy in his mind and red in his vision and hot in his mouth and he sprang and struck, sinking his fangs into the strong, warm neck.

_Blood. Hot, delicious blood. So long, so long, so fucking sweet after all this--_

Spike tore away and staggered back, dropping the gasping, twitching man, and stared in stunned disbelief.

_A human. _He'd_bitten_ a _human._

Without a _shred_ of pain.

Spike turned sharply, eyes searching for the spot where he'd fallen, reaching blindly to the back of his head. Touching the wound hurt and he hissed in anger--but it wasn't the pain he'd grown to expect from the chip.

Warmth trickled down his chin. Cautiously he touched his fingers to his face and brought his hand up. _Blood. There was blood on his hand._ Steaming in the cool autumn air, nearly black beneath the new moon. _Fresh... human... blood._

_He was free…_

"No…" A pathetic whimper, as his prey--_his prey_--tried to crawl away.

Spike growled and grinned fiercely and yanked the man back into his grasp. No sense letting all that lovely blood go to waste. Swiftly, defiantly, _painlessly_ he pierced the man's flesh a second time and _drank.__Blood_ spurted fresh and hot and salty in his mouth, rushed down his throat and into his aching, empty belly. A large man, but he was dead and dry far too soon and Spike wanted _more_.

_Riley. He wanted Riley. He wanted them all. More, he wanted every one of them to suffer the same helplessness he'd been forced to endure. For as long as he let them live._

_But what if Vlad got to them first?_

Eyes narrowed, Spike thought back over what little Riley had told him. They were right to be worried, if Dracula was actually in Sunnydale. But--targeting Buffy? That wasn't Vlad's style. He was powerful, yes, but also cunning and deceitful and very, very cagey. He hadn't lasted nearly 600 years as a vampire by actively seeking out Slayers. If he was here, it wasn't for Buffy. Perhaps something to do with the Hellmouth…

But did it really matter? Vlad would take whatever he'd come for, and if Buffy and Team Scooby were stupid enough to get in his way--as Spike was not--Vlad would be his ruthless Impaler self and that would certainly keep the Slayer busy... _busy enough not to notice that a vampire who could come and go in all their homes had finally escaped their control._ Which meant he'd best dispose of the evidence of tonight's little development. He had plans to make, careful plans, plans that would see the Slayer and her friends on their knees before him, _bleeding_ and _begging_ and _dying_. Couldn't give his secret away before he was ready, now could he?

Lazily Spike leaned down to lick the last of the blood from his victim's neck. With an easy shrug he tossed the corpse with the others. A_snick_ of his lighter, and the funeral pyre smoldered and flickered and finally reached high toward the moonless sky.

He inhaled, deeply--the first full, free breath he'd taken in months. The scent of blood filled the air, mingling with the crisp, acrid tang of burning flesh.

"I am William the Bloody," Spike whispered, flames dancing in his dark, dark eyes as he watched. "You will regret the day you let me live, Slayer."

Spike stepped slowly back, merging once more with the darkness.

Chapter One

_A secluded estate in Eastern Europe_

_Just past midnight, one week later_

Brow furrowed, Vlad III Dracula caressed the letter in his long, slender fingers. _Pathetic._ The powers and protections he'd given Mikhail should have kept him in the game longer than a meager two days--although they would have provided precious little surety against such appalling mistakes. Mikhail had announced himself too soon, moved too openly, and given his powers of seduction far too much credit. Vlad's lip curled contemptuously back. Had Mikhail been trying to impress him? Or had he merely come to believe the part he played?

Immaterial, Vlad decided. Only the swiftness of Mikhail's death had been unexpected, not the results. The Slayer had proven herself to be of a brighter, stronger mettle than many of her predecessors, as he'd been informed. But not so strong that she hadn't been tempted, and not so clever that she hadn't seen through the mask Mikhail had worn. She actually believed she'd killed Dracula. _Foolish child._ This would be all too simple.

As for his grand niece… How infuriating. She couldn't even lie well. Six hundred years of mortal descendants, reduced to this. Vlad flung her letter to the fire, staring at the indolent flames as they rose up to lick at the paper. The letter blackened, curled, and burned. _No more letters, my dear. And no more excuses. Now you will learn the price for your failure._

Vlad turned from the fire to pace the long, sumptuously appointed chamber. Six hundred years. If only he'd learned of the amulet sooner. Too many nights had passed since all of Wallachia had trembled in deepest, darkest fear of his very displeasure. But no longer. Fierce anticipation filled his chest and stretched his lips to a feral grin. _Soon._ He would terrorize and torture and feast as he had not in centuries, would bathe in steaming blood. The slaughter would be _glorious_.

Dracula triggered the transformation and held it back, at that jagged edge of pleasure pain, reveled in the rushing expansion of his senses--the lush caress of silk against his body, the curling heat of the fire, the crisp night air and velvet darkness and the mournful cries of his wolves--

_Yes_, they felt his presence, howling now with joy and primal invitation, and he let the transformation take him and leapt to the balcony doors, his true face revealed to the full, shining moon as he pushed the glass doors open and stalked to the balcony's edge. The cries became harsh, frenzied, and Dracula laughed, a low, growling rumble deep in his chest.

_Go, my children,_ he crooned. _Hunt, fill your bellies, and drink of the night._

They spun about, jaws snapping, powerful hind legs bunching and leaping, and shot off into the forest. Dracula followed their hunt, across miles of rough terrain, until finally he heard what he sought.

The carriage. The pack circled, hungrily considering the horses, but Dracula turned them easily aside and left them, drawing his senses slowly back to his body.

_Excellent._ Luka had returned, and they could proceed to Sunnydale. And she…_ she had sensed him_. He concentrated on her, his awareness of her growing as the carriage drew closer to the estate. Anticipation consumed her, her thoughts chaos itself, yet underneath lay cunning and ferocity and deepest, darkest malevolence. An extraordinary creation.

Vlad released his demon face and returned to the fire, sinking into a tall, leather chair, and waited while the carriage drew up out front, while his servants scurried to carry out his orders. Efficient as ever, Luka entered and silently bowed only minutes later, and with a welcoming wave Vlad acknowledged his steward.

"My prince." Luka bowed again and finally approached.

Vlad raised an eyebrow.

"She knew, my prince," Luka reported, a keen edge to his quiet words. "When I found her in Austria, she was already on her way to you. She is as we were told--_she knew_."

Vlad hissed in angry surprize. How much of his plans might she have revealed? "Exactly what did she know?"

"I heard your call."

_Drusilla._

Vlad stiffened, and Luka spun about at the childlike voice. "You do not enter the Count's presence unannounced," he said sternly.

"He knew I was coming," Drusilla murmured huskily, sauntering into his private cabinet, a sultry smile shaping her blood red lips, and Vlad felt something within him stir at the quicksilver change in her. "Didn't you, sweet prince?"

"Drusilla," Luka began, voice heavy with disapproval, but Vlad stood and laid a calming hand on the stiff back.

"Let be, Luka," he instructed. "The bonds of protocol are not for one such as

she--are they, Drusilla?"

"Bonds?" she repeated, the voice gone young and immature again, but the eyes… Ah, the eyes told a far different story. "I prefer chains," she said slyly. "Chains hurt."

Drusilla brushed past Luka, and Vlad signaled his steward with a quick glance to allow her bold approach. She circled him, her eyes everywhere, boring into him with uncanny, uncomfortable intensity.

"Hell's fury," she whispered, "wishes and kisses," spinning around in front of him like a playful child. But her dark, unfathomable eyes flashed and Vlad caught her as she moved, a perfect moment of demonic grace and speed, tightening his hands on her waist as she molded herself against him.

"You're going to have a party," she giggled mischievously, staring up at him from beneath coyly lowered lashes. "I like parties."

"You see a great deal," Vlad acknowledged coolly.

Drusilla flushed with pleasure. "I saw _you_, under the moon, running with them." Her voice dropped, the change swift as lightning again, and now she licked her lips, rubbing sinuously against him. "Hunting," she purred. "They're feeding now."

Vlad stared, arousal and excitement sparking in him. The wolves _were_ feeding, snapping and snarling over a deer carcass, flesh tearing, blood soaking the ground--and she'd realized it first. Extraordinary, indeed. "Bring us two, Luka," Vlad ordered softly. "The young couple."

"The hikers?" Luka clarified.

Vlad nodded, and with a swift bow his steward was gone.

"Mmm," Drusilla arched back against his hands. "Dinner."

"A feast." Vlad bent, licking at the long, white neck, and abruptly lifted her. She gasped, her hands tightening on his shoulders and her legs winding round his waist as he carried her to the desk and set her on the cool wood.

He slid his hands up, pulling her back into him, gliding his fingers across the smooth, cold skin until they circled her throat. "Drusilla," he murmured, thumbs massaging the hollows at the base of her neck, "did you tell anyone where you were going--and why?"

"The party is a secret," she laughed, twisting into his hold as if she _dared_him to break her neck.

"Yes," he exulted, "a secret." _At last._ His plans were set, the final piece now lustfully writhing in his hands, and no one knew she was with him. _It was time!_ Vlad ripped her dress open and took her mouth, pressing her down to the desk, raking her breasts with cruel fingers, biting at her lips until he tasted blood. She was fiercely demanding beneath him, yanking his head down and arching until he sucked hard at her breast.

"Fear," she moaned, fingers fisting in his hair. "I smell fear."

"Dinner," he reminded her. "Chain them," Vlad ordered, not looking up as the man and woman were dragged into the room. "Drusilla likes chains." He bit at her breast again and heard his pants tear as the heavy iron chains clanked and the woman sobbed, felt mortal fear swell sweet and brittle to fill the room as Drusilla roughly stroked him.

"Luka," he growled, grabbing Drusilla's wrists in a brutal grip and pinning her to the desk. "We leave in two hours."

She went still, waiting, watching him hungrily with those wicked, cunning eyes, while Luka left and the man started begging.

"You will do as I say," Vlad rasped, piercing the depths of Drusilla's shadowed gaze and watching the mad, intricate twisting of her mind until he saw that electrifying moment of submission. He took her then, with savage, frenzied thrusts, driving into her until human terror crested and biting demonic hunger exploded into hot, exultant release.

_Oh, yes…_ He would forge a new hell. His rule would be merciless, his power absolute. How they would cower at his very name! _How he would savor the carnage…_

_Evening in Sunnydale_

_Three days later_

_"Dracula,"_ Xander snapped, pulling up in front of the Summers home. "Great. Just what I need." He threw the car in park and ran his hand raggedly through his hair. He _could_ just go home. Claim he wasn't feeling well… he had to be at work early… he had to clean the damned bathroom. Anything to get out of an entire night of Dracula movies.

Xander closed his eyes and sat back, the car still running. _Come on, Harris. How many could there be?_

Bad question. If there were fifty Dracula movies in existence, Willow would be her usual, thorough, Research Girl self and have forty-eight of them in there, with the other two on the way.

Okay--look on the bright side. Was there a bright side? Wait--hadn't Jeri Ryan been in that last one? Success! A babe-o-licious bright side after all. And Dracula _always_got staked or something--didn't he?

Yeah, but he'd bet his last dollar there was always a Renfield. And he probably ate bugs in every single stinking flick.

He should just go home.

_Rap rap rap._

Xander stiffened, head whipping around and eyes flying open. Anya smiled at him from the other side of the passenger window.

"Hi, honey," she cooed, waving. "Did you get me something?"

Xander stared blankly. "What?"

"Did you get me something?" she repeated loudly. "Those little rubber things you always insist we--"

"Anya!" Xander shut off the ignition and scurried out of the car. "Must you announce to Buffy's entire neighborhood that we ran out of condoms?!"

Oh, hell. He'd shouted that, hadn't he. Yep. Sure had. Xander slouched against the door and banged his head on the roof. "Just shoot me now," he muttered.

"Don't worry," Riley said, and Xander turned to see him trotting across the street from where he'd parked. "I think I'm the only one who heard the news," he grinned, clapping Xander on the back.

Xander managed to smile back. Wonderful. He felt so much better. But Anya was frowning at him. And her arms were crossed.

Riley's glance swiveled between them. "Are you guys going in?"

"In a minute," Xander nodded. He followed Riley around the car and grimaced at the sympathetic glance Riley shot him as he headed up the walk. Yeah, how about Angry Ex-Demon Girlfriends for a thousand, Alex.

"I'm sorry, Anya," Xander began. "I promise I'll--"

"You didn't go to the drug place, did you?" she interrupted sharply.

He dredged up every last bit of patience in him. "The pharmacy," he corrected. "And no, I didn't have the time to--"

"Who is she?" Anya snapped, and Xander stared at the tears welling in her eyes.

Helplessly he shook his head. "Who is who?"

Anya wiped furiously at her tears. "I know I haven't been human long, but I've been around the street."

"Around the block." _Shit._ He winced. "Sorry--"

"Stop correcting me!" she wailed. "Just tell me who she is! You're gone when I wake up, I never see you after work anymore, you're always too tired for sex, and all those bruises--what does she do for you, Xander? When have I ever--"

Xander pulled her gently to him and brushed his lips over hers. "Stop," he said softly, and kissed her again, long and slow and deep. She trembled against him, and then she clung, and he wanted to kick himself for doing this to her.

"Xander," Anya whispered brokenly, pulling back to stare up at him, "I swear I'll do whatever--"

"I said stop." He cradled her face in his hands. "_There is no one else._ I'm sorry I gave you any reason at all to think that."

"That's what men always say."

He would have laughed, if she hadn't been standing so devastated in his arms. "You've got to stop thinking of everything in terms of sex and betrayal, Anya--you're _not_a revenge demon anymore."

"No," she admitted hoarsely, "I'm your girlfriend."

"You're_Anya_, and you just happen to have Thoughtless Boyfriend here who got a little wrapped up…" He sighed, and smoothed his hands down her arms. Damn it, he wasn't ready to spill these particular beans yet. But another tear rolled down her cheek and prodded the truth from him. "Anya, I've been going to the gym."

She blinked. "The _gym_?"

"You saw," he bitterly reminded her. "You heard. Spineless Dracula 'Yes, Master' Man, eating bugs and getting pummeled as usual."

"You don't usually eat bugs," she said solemnly.

"True," he snorted, "but I do usually get the crap beaten out of me. It only took Riley one punch that time."

"But that wasn't your fault!" she insisted. "Dracula was the most powerful vampire _ever._"

"And Buffy needed all of five minutes to take _him_ out."

"Buffy's the Slayer! And you're--"

He raised an eyebrow.

"And you're not," she finally finished. "You're Xander, and you love me, and that's all I need. You're hurting yourself--do you have to do this?"

"The bruises are from the sparring. They'll go away. And yeah--I _do_ have to do this. I've got to be stronger, Anya. I'm tired of always being the Red Shirt. I've just been lucky so far, that the monster of the week hasn't killed me before the opening credits."

She reached up to rub at his shoulders, her gaze boring solemnly into his. "It doesn't matter what color shirt you're wearing. You're already strong, Xander. And brave, too. And I miss you."

_But not strong or brave enough._ He was _not_ going to be used like that again. _Ever_.

"I am sorry, Anya, but I need to do this. You'll see. Trust me, okay? Listen--why don't we take off, hit the 24-hour WalMart for happy little rubber guys, and just go home?"

A small smile finally lifted the corners of Anya's mouth. "Happy_big_ rubber--"

"Hi, Guys!" Willow pulled her hand from Tara's--because the other hand gripped a Blockbuster bag that had to have at least six or eight DVD's in it--and waved as they walked over from their car. "Ready for a Dracula fest?"

"No, thanks. We're going to have sex," Anya cheerfully announced. "Xander's been at the--"

"_Anya_, honey," Xander interrupted, his stomach tightening. He made himself smile. "They don't--that--I was at… the store! Yes--the store! And I forgot popcorn. Can't have a Dracula fest without popcorn, right?"

Anya's smile faltered. Willow exchanged a puzzled glance with Tara, who gently jiggled a second Blockbuster bag. "We've got popcorn," Tara said. "Are you okay, Xander?"

"He's fine, thank Avarra," Anya sighed. "The bruises will--"

"Ran into a door," he laughed frantically, pulling Anya with him as he darted up the walk. "At the store. Anya, _sweetheart_, let's go see if we can help Buffy with anything, okay?"

Anya stumbled after him, while Willow and Tara stared open-mouthed from the curb. "Xander--" Anya stammered.

"Not a word about the gym," he whispered fiercely. "That's just what I need, Riley stopping by with Fighting Hints for the Clueless."

"But--"

"And will you _please_ stop talking about our sex life?" He stabbed at the doorbell. "Contrary to what apparently passes for demonic conversation, sex is not the only thing _people_ talk about."

Anya paled, Willow and Tara caught up, Buffy opened the door, and Xander wished with all his heart he'd driven away when he'd had the chance.

"Hi," he waved weakly at Buffy. "Willow's got movies, Tara's got popcorn, and I don't think I'm ever going to get this foot out of my mouth."

"Terminal size eleven, huh?" Buffy grinned. "Relax. The taste of leather eventually goes away--especially if you eat popcorn."

Xander looked at Anya, who was staring at the ground. "How much popcorn do we have?" he said softly.

"Come on," Willow pushed gently from behind. "I vote we watch the 1931 Bela Lugosi 'Dracula' first. It's a classic."

Xander sighed and followed Anya into the house. Could the movie matter any less now? He was _so_ in the doghouse.

"Geez, Will," Buffy laughed, "how many Dracula movies did you get?"

"Just seven," Willow shrugged. "Four serious scary, two funny, and one foreign."

"Ew--subtitles," Buffy shuddered. "I veto foreign!"

"Well, actually, it doesn't say if it's been subtitled or dubbed," Tara clarified.

"And that's 'Nosferatu,'" Willow complained. "We can't have a Dracula fest without 'Nosferatu'!"

They piled into the living room and Xander ignored the debate and dropped tiredly onto the floor. No big surprize, Anya wedging herself onto the sofa, where Willow cuddled with Tara. He rubbed at his eyes and stared up at his girlfriend.

She looked… fragile. And alone. Sitting there staring at her hands, idly spinning the bracelet he'd gotten her around her wrist. A simple gift, not expensive. A last-minute thought, really, but she treated it like diamonds from a king. Maybe he should do the flower thing to apologize. Or more jewelry. Real stuff this time. Except by then she'd have already forgiven him--or more accurately, already slipped into totally denying he'd ever insulted her in the first place. Why the hell didn't she ever stick up for herself? Made fighting damned difficult.

"… or we could just go chronologically," Willow suggested. "Except for 'Nosferatu,' even though it's from 1922, since we're watching that one last."

Buffy heaved a theatrical sigh of relief. "I'll be safely patrolling by then…"

Over a thousand years as a revenge demon, but she never stuck up for herself. Not with him, anyway. Some guys would give up an arm to have a girl that obliging. But… not even _two_years as a human. He really needed to cut her some slack. Stop correcting her like he always did. Anya would settle into humanity eventually. It's not like she ever _meant_to embarrass him. And Buffy and Willow knew where she was coming from. Anya glanced up as Riley entered with a monstrous bowl of popcorn. The light shifted on her face, darkening her eyes and lending mystery to her soft, delicate features. She really was beautiful. Had he told her that lately?

"… uh, move over, Xander," Riley said, sliding down to the floor, and obediently Xander shifted aside.

Sprawled across the chair, Buffy reached for a handful of popcorn. "Give it up, Will. We need some comedy first."

"But the Bela Lugosi 'Dracula' has comedy!" Willow protested.

Riley snorted. "That would be completely unintentional--because we're watching the movie eighty years later. We're used to much more sophisticated special effects and an entirely different style of filmmaking. 'Dracula' was meant to be quite serious."

"What he said," Buffy grinned. "So is it 'Love at First Bite' or 'Dead and Loving It'? Mel Brooks and Leslie Nielsen, or George Hamilton…"

Xander started on the popcorn. He'd need to eat the entire bowl himself before he got this taste out of his mouth. How long before Anya stopped ignoring him? Would she finally get angry with him? Make him work a little for the forgiveness she lavished on him? Maybe if he brought her breakfast in… _Damn._ He was due at the gym at seven o'clock in the morning. Either he woke her up well before she preferred, or she woke up alone again.

_Shit._ Why was this so complicated? Work, work out, have a girlfriend, fight vampires and demons…

Okay. Make that work at his lame job, try to get in shape so he didn't get beat up so often, try to teach an ex-demon how to be a nineteen-year-old California girl, and get out of the way while Buffy and Riley fought vampires and demons.

A sniveling sound went right down his spine. Outstanding. They'd picked "Love at First Bite." Arte Johnson brought sniveling to a new level. He wished he could laugh at it. Wished he could shrug the whole thing off as easily as everyone else seemed to. It didn't help, that he wasn't sure where his relationship with Anya was going. Hell, where his _life_ was going. But all he could really see in his future was hours of Draculas and Renfields followed by a long night of making Anya see why she deserved to be angry with him, then coaxing her out of it. At least he was making progress at the gym.

Xander grabbed more popcorn. Maybe he could work in an extra session, after work. Anya would understand. Eventually.

_Giles' home_

_The next afternoon_

Buffy trudged up the walk to Giles' place and wondered for the hundredth time what was wrong with her.

Riley was great. Mom was busy and social and not hovering. Giles was a Watcher on a mission. Willow and Tara, Xander and Anya. Everyone was cozy, not bleeding or broken, and they'd spent a long, lazy summer together.

Fall term had just descended, but she'd lightened the course load and had nothing to worry about there. Knowing she'd already dealt with freshman orientation, old boyfriend issues, the Demon Roommate From Hell, the Psychotic Professor From Hell, the Harebrained Military Operation From Hell, the Reanimated Piecemeal Monster From Hell, the "other" Slayer, _and_calculus took a huge weight off her.

Drusilla was playing house with some demon on another continent, and Spike was so far past being an issue that even _he_ didn't bother her any more. She'd spiked _Dracula_, thank you very much, which had to be one helluva Slayer Milestone. Giles was even optimistic--cautious, but still optimistic--about dealing with the Council again.

So what the hell was wrong with her? Why was she walking around with this itch under her skin that things had been too quiet for too long and were going to bust apart like some foul-smelling, puss-faced, exploding demon?

Was this her "dark side," rearing its dark and hairy head? Or was she just looking for trouble?

Buffy knocked once and pushed the door open. Give her a good, open fight any day over all this worrying and waiting. Maybe Giles had found something. "Giles?"

The teapot started whistling as she entered, and Giles wandered down the hall from his library, nose buried in an old, bound manuscript he carried.

"Hey," Buffy said. "Water's ready."

"Oh hello, Buffy. I didn't hear you come in. How did the Dracula marathon go?"

Buffy dropped onto Giles' sofa and wearily propped her feet up on his coffee table. "You should've come, Giles. Enough Dracula in one night to make you really appreciate bad Transylvanian accents."

"Actually…" Drifting in from the kitchen with his tea, Giles didn't look up from the manuscript. "Dracula was a prince of Wallachia, which was a province of Romania."

"Not in the movies--he's always from Transylvania." Buffy shrugged. "I think--they started to run together after the third movie."

Giles sat, setting his tea on the table and carefully turning over a page of notes. "I've always preferred Frankenstein myself."

"Well, you do get that whole 'mad scientist with the really cool lab' angle. But everybody knows the reanimated piecemeal monster thing would never work--right?"

Giles finally glanced up, mouth curved in a wry grin. "Right. What_could_ I have been thinking?"

"Just don't tell Willow--please," Buffy smiled back. "She'll start collecting Frankenstein flicks. Considering my line of work, one monster movie fest a year is enough."

"Too scary?" Giles teased, gently flipping another page.

"Too Hollywood phony," Buffy snorted. "I don't hear any soundtrack playing when something's about to leap out at me from the bushes. I don't get the great wardrobe, I don't get the makeup and hair guys--not even a stunt double. I--"

"Here it is," Giles leaned forward. "I thought it was De la Chasse."

Buffy craned for a better view of the faded pages and the neat handwriting that covered them. "What's with the old diary? Any steamy bits?"

"It's a _Watcher_diary," Giles said dryly, "from 1632. And so far it offers only the third reference in my entire library of any 'dark' aspects of the Slayer's powers."

"Really?" Buffy dropped her feet back to the floor and shifted closer. "Spill, Giles. I can't read this stuff. What does this guy have to say?"

"Yes, well, seventeenth century French isn't my forté either, unfortunately. But if I'm right, Jean-Pierre De la Chasse--that's the Watcher--uses the words 'dark' and 'base' to describe the Slayer's strength. And here… the visions of Lysette--that's Lysette d'Orleans, the Slayer--were apparently a torment to her, 'dark premonitions of innumerable deaths.'"

Giles fell silent, reading, brow furrowed in concentration as he translated. Buffy waited. And waited.

"Well?" she finally prompted. "That's it?"

"I'm afraid so," he murmured. "De la Chasse was of noble birth, so his writings are very…"

"Useless?" Buffy supplied.

Giles cleared his throat. "Philosophical. There's very little practical application or historical fact in his journals."

Buffy sighed. "But _facts_ are what we need. Have you reached the Council yet?"

"Well, no," Giles sighed, carefully closing the manuscript and setting it aside. "I've spoken with an old friend in London, who has an extensive library and often assists the Council with their research. He's agreed to speak to others close to the Council and feel out their mood for us. If--"

"Their_mood?_" Buffy surged to her feet. "I don't care what their _mood_ is, any more than I care about their rules and their stupid tests. They exist to help the Slayer slay. _Period._ End of story. Case closed. They can be pissed with me for the next thousand years, as long as they help me learn more about my powers and then get out of the way while I use them."

"Buffy, you know it's not that simple with the Council."

"But it should be." Buffy paced restlessly. "Giles, I killed Dracula. Doesn't that get me a 'pass go and collect two hundred dollars' card with them? Do we have to play these games now, when so much--"

Buffy faltered. She'd almost said, "when so much was at stake." But--_what_ was at stake? _And why? How?_

"Buffy?" Giles stared up at her. "Is something wrong?"

"I don't know," she growled in frustration, dropping back down to the sofa, her sudden energy gone. "It's like the audience is screaming at the screen for the heroine to turn around and see the bad guy before he grabs her, but I've turned around a hundred times since I dusted Dracula and I can't see a thing."

"It could be nothing," Giles mused, "but your instincts have never cried wolf before. Have you been dreaming?"

Buffy shrugged. "I think so, but I can't remember any of them since those creepy seduction scenes starring Dracula and me."

Giles took a long sip of his tea, considering. "I can put out some feelers, do some research to see if we're approaching any demonic anniversaries or convergences. But without more to go on, you'll simply have to keep your eyes open."

"Wide open," Buffy sighed. "Giles, I'd feel a lot better if we could pry some nice, juicy facts out of the Council. I mean it--now is _not_ the time for them to hold out on me."

"All right, Buffy," Giles softly replied. "I'll ask Charles to approach the Council for us directly and arrange a meeting. But don't expect too much from them--and _don't_ become obsessed about this 'dark side' to your abilities. That information came from Dracula, after all, and can't be trusted. I can't even verify what he told you, and my library covers quite a bit of ground. I'm not sure what more the Council will be able to tell you."

Buffy rubbed tiredly at her eyes. "Maybe we should just _go._ Walk into the Council, get their attention, and start pushing buttons until we get some answers."

"A frontal assault? On the _Council?_" Giles raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I can't remember when that_ever_worked with them. They're notoriously rigid."

"Then maybe it's time we loosened them up a bit."

"One step at a time," Giles cautioned. "Let's see how far Charles gets, before we--" The phone rang, and Giles stood. "--book any plane tickets. All right?"

Silently Buffy nodded, while Giles answered the phone. She didn't really want to go before the Council when she had this little to go on anyway. Except the itch under her skin was only getting worse. Soon she might not have much of a choice--and then, neither would they.

Giles disappeared down the hall again, talking softly on the phone, and Buffy slipped quietly out. He'd let her know when he had something real. In the meantime, there was College Life: that last box of school supplies to pick up from home and take to her dorm room. And then maybe a nap. Or she'd never survive patrolling tonight _and_ that nine o'clock lecture in the morning.

She was just curling up with her favorite blanket and pillow when the phone rang. Sighing, Buffy reached for the phone. Maybe it was Giles with good news and she could stop worrying the world was going to end--again.

"Hey, Gorgeous," Riley said, and Buffy relaxed back onto her pillow.

"Hey, yourself," she smiled. "Why aren't you here napping with me?"

Riley groaned. "Sounds perfect. Except for this little thing with the Dean."

"Sorry--I forgot," Buffy yawned. "I don't think I'll ever get all this Greek stuff."

She could almost _hear_Riley's frown. "Buffy, half the fraternity disappeared, the other half needed hospitalization, and the house needed thirty thousand dollars of renovations when the Initiative was shut down. You have to admit, we're a little beyond the normal concerns of Greek life."

"But I thought the Dean bought into that whole 'philosophical differences' story you spun about why the others were gone--and Uncle Sam pitched in that nice, big, anonymous donation."

"Yeah, well, we're still high on the Dean's 'list.' I've got to present our plans for recruitment this year. He's really following our rebuilding process closely."

"Mmm." Buffy closed her eyes, snuggling deeper into the pillow. "Go be Greek then, Mister Fraternity President. I'll just have to dream about you."

"You can have me in the flesh tonight," he offered. "I'll even make you dinner."

"'Kay," Buffy mumbled. "Gotta patrol, too."

"I've got it covered. You want pasta or chicken?"

_Pasta._

"Buffy?"

_Pasta--that dish with the noodles and cheese and _"… those little sausages."

"What? Did you say sausages? Hey--you still awake over there?"

_Rap rap rap._

Buffy sat straight up. "I said pasta," she blurted loudly.

The door opened, and Willow poked her head in. "Hey, Buffy. You ordering take-out?"

Buffy waved Willow in. "No, Will, I'm talking to Riley. Sorry for zoning out on you there. We're okay for tonight, then?"

"Sure, Buffy," Riley said gently. "Call me when you wake up, and I'll come get you. Sweet dreams."

"Thanks," she yawned, and fumbled with the receiver until Willow reset it in the cradle for her. Buffy dropped back down to her nice, warm pillow. "What's up?"

"Nothing," Willow smiled brightly, shrugging. "Really. Just stopping by to see if you're all unpacked. Can't I just be stopping by? No emergencies, no Research Girl reports, no deceptively simple spells run amok. Just me and you, hanging out--"

"Willow," Buffy interrupted. "You're pacing. I'm napping. Do I need to not be napping? _Please_ tell me I don't need to not be napping."

Willow stopped mid-stride. "Oh--napping! Right. You've got that early lecture tomorrow, don't you." She started backing toward the door. "We'll hang out later, okay? See ya."

With a cheerful wave and a slightly brittle smile Willow slipped out. Buffy closed her eyes and pulled her blanket back up. Later. She'd find out what had Willow all babbling and pacing later. Somewhere in between patrol and sleep and Riley and sleep… and checking back with Giles… and sleep…

_"Hey, Gorgeous," Riley purred, pulling her back against his bare chest. Strong arms came around her and Buffy relaxed, letting her head fall back to his shoulder._

_"Hey, yourself," she sighed, arching into the soft, warm lips brushing gently along her neck. Riley's hands roamed to her hips, molding her more closely to him, and slid under her shirt. Buffy moaned, twisting against his maddening fingers--skimming along her ribs, circling her breasts--the heat of his touch lost to the cool, night air as he pulled her shirt up. Buffy raised her arms, turning as Riley lazily tossed her shirt aside, and pressed herself into his heat._

_"Yes," she crooned, stroking her fingers through his hair as he licked at her neck, shivering when he sucked at her ear, his breath hot and harsh, shivering harder when he pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses along her jaw. "Riley…"_

_His hand fisted in her hair--and he yanked her head back, hard. Buffy gasped, clinging to Riley's shoulders, staring up into his dark, fathomless eyes. He grinned fiercely and pulled her hips into his and bent her back over the desk, grinding into her and taking her mouth with a savagery that sent a furious excitement sizzling through her. Need enflamed her and she bit at his hard, devouring lips._

_He laughed, a sound of triumph and sheer power, and pulled her back to her feet. He twisted them around and before she could find her balance he back-handed her. She landed hard, sprawled across rough, uneven ground, blood harsh and tangy in her mouth, and he was on her, pinning her hands high and thrusting into her with brutal, pounding strength._

_"More," she begged, writhing frantically as he rode her, hard, into the ground. Could she ever get enough of him--of this? "Please--more."_

_Again he laughed, cruelly, and wordlessly now she pleaded with the dark, looming figure. He thrust harder, faster, sending sparks skittering under her skin, and she threw her head back and keened. Moonlight shifted across his features as he raised his head, lips curled in a bloody, vicious grin, eyes glittering with savage pleasure, and she stared at--_

_Not Riley. Not Riley?! But--she knew him. Knew his dark, wicked beauty-- Knew his wanting her, reveled in it, in his brutal taking of her--in his menacing power and magnificent strength--_

_Desperate hunger spiraled jaggedly through her as he lowered his head, blocking out the moonlight, licking into her mouth and sucking the breath from her. She couldn't move, couldn't think, could only _feel_ as he held her down and thrust into her once more--twice--and she shuddered and screamed as wild, fiery release exploded--_

Buffy bolted upright and threw herself from the bed and the suffocating weight of her blanket, stumbling over something and flying into the wall. Shaking, gasping, she sank to the floor and blinked in the darkness.

_Just a dream. Dear God--just a dream. What the HELL?!?_

The phone rang, harsh and shrill, and Buffy grabbed at it. "What?" she snapped.

A moment of hesitant silence.

"Buffy?"_Riley._

She closed her eyes and made herself take a deep, steadying breath. Just a dream.

"Buffy--what's wrong?" Urgently now.

"Nothing," she heard herself say. "Nothing's wrong. Riley, I've got to do--something else. Tonight. With Willow."

"Buffy," he said again, sternly this time. _"What's wrong?"_

_We had really rough sex and you slapped me around and then it wasn't you and--_

_And I loved every minute of it._

She shuddered. "Riley, I promise, nothing is wrong," Buffy insisted. "I just--I'll see you later, all right? Patrol. The usual time."

She hung up, hating that she'd hurt Riley, hating more that she couldn't get past the churning in her stomach just hearing his voice had stirred up.

Buffy stood and grabbed a towel and headed for the shower. She could feel him--taste him--Riley--_that man_--

_Just a dream._


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

_The Magic Box_

_That night_

Anya handed Mrs. Webster her change and tucked her receipt into the bag. "Remember to grind the comfrey and the kendra root _first_," she loudly reminded the woman, handing over the bag. "Or you'll just make a mess and the potion won't work."

"Eh?" Mrs. Webster raised an eyebrow and angled her head so Anya now faced her good ear.

Anya gave up. "The instructions are in the bag!"

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Webster nodded. "Thank you, dear." She smiled and patted Anya's cheek and Anya forced herself to accept the touch of the gnarled, shaking fingers. There was power in those hands. Besides, the woman spent a lot of money in the store, and she was never impatient when Anya needed to look things up or didn't understand. In fact, she was the only old person Anya could tolerate at all. So Anya forced her smile wider and watched to make sure Mrs. Webster didn't need help on the steps.

That would be her one day. Stooped and wrinkled and slow. But without the power. Anya's chest tightened and her stomach churned. She didn't want to be wrinkled like Mrs. Webster, didn't want to be stooped over, didn't want to need a cane. Xander had promised her she wouldn't look like that for sixty or seventy years, but she didn't want to look like that _ever._

Anya pressed her fist into her belly and breathed deeply until the pain subsided. The door finally closed behind Mrs. Webster, the jangling of the bell echoing harshly down her spine. _Old. She would be old. It was only a matter of time._

The clock in the corner chimed and Anya jumped. Nine thirty. Thank Avarra. And only that waif who never bought anything still in the store.

"We're closing now," she announced, pulling the spell book from the girl's hands. The girl glared at her, and Anya glared right back. "Go to the--to the _library_ if you want to read," she snapped, shoving the book back onto the shelf. "This is a _store._ You people are supposed to _buy_ things here. Now leave."

The girl shrugged and took her time, slouching along, insolently running her fingers through the display of worry stones, and the last of Anya's patience snapped. She grabbed at the girl's wrist and dragged her toward the door.

"Let go!" she shouted, pulling at Anya's grasp. "Or I'll turn you into--into a troll!"

Anya swung the girl around and backed her into the door. "A troll? _A troll?_" She yanked the girl's wrist up between them. "Listen to me, you little wretch. I know power when I touch it and you have none_None._ Now get out of here before I show you what a troll really looks like."

The girl stared, jaw sagging, panic shortening her breath, and tripped over her own feet in her haste to slip through the door. Anya slammed it shut behind her, shot the bolt home, and flipped the Closed sign over.

By the ninth hell of Navgor, _that had felt good._ Her power may be long gone, but at least she could still intimidate the young ones.

"I thought the customer was always right," a lazy voice drawled, and Anya spun about as a lanky figure detached itself from the shadows beneath the balcony.

"Oh," she frowned, stalking back to the display. "It's just you. What do you want, Spike?"

He lit a cigarette and leaned into the post. "Just out and about, love. You know me."

Anya scooped the scattered worry stones up and tipped them back into the bowl. "I know you shouldn't smoke in here," she glared at him. "I know I'm closing and I don't want you around."

"Ouch," he pouted, rubbing at his chest. "Stick the point a little closer to my heart next time."

He took a long drag on the cigarette, and Anya opted to ignore him, putting her back to him and scanning the shelves. She reached out to put a book back in its proper place. Stupid girl. Did she have to finger up the entire store?

"All alone tonight, pet?" Spike exhaled, right behind her, smoke ringing round her, and Anya tensed and knocked over a bottle of holy water. Silently she grabbed at it before it could roll off the counter.

"My my my," he continued, "aren't we a little tense lately. Relax, pet--you'd think Dracula was still lurking around out there."

Obviously ignoring him wasn't going to work. "Get away from me, Spike."

Instead he pulled himself up to sit on the counter. Anya continued straightening, right around him.

"Did you know him?" Spike asked.

"Who? Dracula?" She shrugged. "We partied once or twice. I think in Prague."

"Yeah? We were in London at the same time for… must have been five or six weeks. I'm pissed I didn't get my money back from him before Buffy spiked him." Another long, lazy drag on the cigarette. "Did he remember you?"

Damn it, one of the Alliyithrah figures was missing. Probably that stupid girl. Anya felt even better about throwing her out. "What?"

Spike laughed softly. "He didn't last long against Buffy, did he? You get to party for old time's sake first?"

"No." Anya bit the word off. Xander hadn't let her go near Dracula. A piece of her old life, and she hadn't had even a moment to embrace it. Then Xander had shoved her into that closet. Not his fault, of course--nobody, except Buffy obviously, could stand up to Dracula when he was working a coercion spell--but she was still annoyed she'd spent nearly twelve hours stuck in that hole before Xander had returned.

She glanced at her watch and headed for the register. He was late. _Again._

Spike followed, leaning over the counter as she cashed out the drawer. "Where's lover boy?"

"Be quiet," Anya scowled. "I'm counting."

Fine. If Xander didn't want everyone to know about the gym, then _fine._ She wouldn't make _that_ mistake again. But he'd been gone this morning and he was late again now and the least he could do was show up on time to walk her home.

"Well look at you," Spike said softly, and Anya clenched at the bills in her hand as another cloud of smoke drifted over her. "Aren't we the little shop girl these days?"

_"Yes,"_ she hissed at him, shoving the money back into the drawer, the totals gone from her head. "Yes--_a shop girl_._This_ I understand. _This_ I can do. All by myself, even when Giles has his all-important Watcher stuff to do and Xander can't be bothered to spend time with me. Are you happynow, Spike? What do you want from me?"

"Nothing, pet," Spike murmured, looking away, jaw tightening. He took a final drag on the cigarette and tossed it to the floor, grinding it into the smooth wooden boards. "A demon who can't work magic any more, a vampire who can't feed any more…" He shrugged, and turned to stare at her, and she couldn't understand the look in his eyes. "Do the math, pet," he continued. "I just thought we had something in common."

The pain in her belly roiled up again. Anya clutched at her stomach. "I'm not a killer," she said tautly. "I was _never_ a killer."

"Maybe not," he nodded, dark, brooding eyes raking over her. "But you know what it's like to have power taken from you. We both know you wouldn't be living with _Xander_ and playing _shop girl_ if you still had your amulet."

Anya closed her eyes, but she couldn't stop the stupid, _mortal_tears from leaking out. "Get out, Spike," she said thickly.

_Old. Old. She would be old, and weak… _

_And alone._

The bell jangled, and the door closed, and Anya blinked and looked slowly around in the silent, shadowed store. Books, tokens, weapons, ingredients… everything in its place. And everything to bring power and strength. She'd never _needed_any of it before. And now… Now, she couldn'tusea single thing.

Anya turned her head toward the door, feeling every one of her eleven hundred years as she never had, and waited. She stood there, clenched fists resting on the still open cash drawer, silently begging every deity or demon she'd ever heard of, and watched the door.

The clock struck ten, each tinny chime grating down every nerve in her stupid, _mortal_ body. Was Xander really at the gym? Or _had_ he found someone else?

Did it matter? _He'd forgotten her again._

She was nothing to him. _Nothing._ And he was all she had.

Anya shoved the drawer closed and grabbed her coat and keys and purse. Let Giles count the damned drawer in the morning. She yanked the coat on and stabbed at the lights and let herself out, turning the key savagely and stalking swiftly away.

No power, no Xander, no_ life._ What was she supposed to do now? What was she supposed to _be_? Had they thought of that when they'd broken her _damn them for all eternity_ amulet?

She brushed roughly at the tears that wouldn't stop and kept walking. But she couldn't walk fast enough, couldn't leave behind the stabbing pain in her belly and the frantic thoughts whirling in her head and the awful weight tightening her chest.

A wave of pounding music and loud voices crested and Anya turned as the door to First Quarter Moon closed. A trendy club, but she'd been reading the magazines--she was dressed trendy. She liked trendy. And the line wasn't long. Anya crossed the street, the need for noise and loud music and _people_ overpowering. She dug in her purse for her compact and angled to see her reflection in the light cast by the street lamp.

"You look perfect," a low, smooth voice said, heavy with an accent she couldn't quite place, and Anya turned.

He was gorgeous. Thick, dark hair curling over his collar and hanging negligently in his penetrating blue eyes. Full lips, smiling sexily as he looked down at her, and that stunningly chiseled jaw. Broad, strong shoulders, and lean, strong hands. He brushed the hair from his eyes, his smile faltering as he shifted uncomfortably, and Anya released the breath she'd been holding.

"Forgive me," he said, and Anya dropped her compact and grabbed his hand.

"No," she stammered, "I'm sorry. I was staring. I do that sometimes. They keep telling me it's rude, but you just--I couldn't--" She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry."

His smile returned, growing slow and beautiful across his face and lighting his eyes, and Anya couldn't help but smile back.

"You're staring again," he teased, but the words were gentle, and he wouldn't let go of her hand when she tried, embarrassed, to pull back.

"I'm s--"

"No," he murmured, brushing his fingers lightly across her lips and shocking her into silence with the unexpected caress. "Don't apologize. If I didn't want you to look at me, I wouldn't have spoken to you."

"Oh," she whispered. Anya winced. She'd have to do better than that.

"I'm Luka," he said, raising her hand to his mouth, and her entire body shook when he pressed a soft kiss to her fingers.

"Anya," she managed.

"That's a beautiful name." His hand was warm and gentle at her back, and blindly she moved a few steps forward in line with him. "Do you live here in Sunnydale?"

"Yes," she replied. And then her worries and her fears crashed down on her again and she frowned. "No. No, not really. I don't like it here. I never did."

He shrugged. "Then perhaps you should go somewhere new. Except, not tonight, I hope."

It was Luka's turn to stare, his hand still possessively at the small of her back, and Anya went warm and liquid inside at the desire sparking deep and shadowed in his eyes.

"No, not tonight," she nearly sang. Then she wracked her brain for something else to say. Standing so close to him, wrapped in his intoxicating scent and his glorious regard, every Cosmo article she'd ever read fled her mind. Damn--revenge demons had so little use for casual conversation. It was the hardest part of being human. Wait--what had he asked her? "Where are _you_ from?" she finally blurted.

"Croatia," he replied, and a land she remembered as grim and dark seemed suddenly rich and exotic.

"What, um, brings you to Sunnydale?" She was proud of that.

"Business," Luka waved negligently. "My employer seeks a location for his newest store."

Anya nearly bounced with pleasure. She understood about stores. "What do you sell?"

He trailed a lazy finger down her neck, sliding his finger under the chain she wore. "Beautiful jewelry," he drawled, "for beautiful women such as you."

"I like jewelry," she breathed. "And I'm very good in stores. Maybe I could help."

His fingers ghosted across her neck, lingering where her pulse pounded, and his eyes dropped to her mouth. "We talk business… tomorrow," he murmured, his accent thickening. Gentle fingers slowly raised her chin, but Luka waited, his gaze flicking back up to hers.

Anya threw all her worries away. Let Xander have his other woman who gave him bruises and probably always said the right things. Let Giles run his own damned shop--let them all go to hell. She would make something new of herself. And she would start with this man and the handful of breathless minutes he'd already given her.

"Tomorrow," she agreed.

Triumph heated the depths of Luka's eyes and that glorious mouth hardened with desire and lowered to hers and Anya went blind and deaf to everything but the roaring heat and lavish plundering of his lips and teeth and tongue.

They never made it into the club. Luka took her to dinner in a small, intimate restaurant, sitting close to her, his hands hot on her back, her elbow, her thigh. He fed her tender veal and crisp asparagus one morsel at a time, raising the glass of liqueur to her mouth with his own fingers and licking the fiery drops left on her lips.

They walked through the darkness, his arm strong around her, and she drifted carelessly with the rhythm of his words and the low, rumbling caress of his laughter. Somewhere there was music and his incredible body molded to hers, his hands roaming, leaving her shivering and aching with need. When he lifted her she sighed and wound her arms around his neck. When he lowered her to the bed and smoothed her clothes away and drove her mindless with dizzying pleasure she opened herself to him and took him in and wondered at the pulsing storm he'd called up, that seared her and crashed through her and hurled her deep into a body she'd never appreciated before.

She woke, expecting to be alone, but urgent lips claimed hers in the darkness, rough hands stroking her to swift, biting need, and Luka rolled her on top of him and lifted her hips and with an exultant cry she took him, riding him hard, reveling in his hunger for _her_, in every moan and gasp she won from him, in shredding his control until he dragged her beneath him and pounded into her and sent them both soaring into fierce, shattering release.

She woke again, trembling and moaning without knowing why, and behind her Luka moved, against her, already deep within her, his hard mouth biting at her ear, his clever hands snaking round to knead her breasts and stroke slick and hard between her legs. Pleasure rolled over her, crested, washed through her again, and helplessly she tumbled into endless, pulsing waves of soft, dark oblivion.

There was sunlight, and the smell of coffee, and this time when she woke she was alone. But the sheets were tucked carefully around her, and flowers bloomed bright on the cart and across the bed, and the note on his pillow apologized abjectly for his needing to leave and begged her to meet him at First Quarter Moon again that night.

The clock read 1:20. She should have been at the shop over an hour ago. Anya shoved the clock off the night table and pulled all the flowers to her that she could reach. She'd see Luka again. Maybe she would stay with him. And maybe she wouldn't. Regardless, she owed Luka for the most startling revelation she'd ever experienced: Xander Harris _wasn't_the only man in the world who would have her.

She didn't _need_ to put up with his moods, his filthy socks, with the constant fear that he'd go back to Willow or finally win Buffy. She may not have power any longer, but there was more to mortal life than Xander Harris and Sunnydale.

Much, much more.

_Sunnydale Gym and Fitness Center_

_Early evening_

Xander braced his feet at either side of the bench, inhaled, and flexed his fingers around the bar.

"All right, Xander. Give me three sets of ten." Jacob came into view, upside-down above him, his powerful hands hovering near Xander's on the bar.

Xander nodded at his trainer, exhaled, and hefted the bar slowly over his chest. _One._

He should go to the magic shop right after this, Xander thought. _Two._

He should buy those flowers he'd thought about getting Anya and _then_go to the magic shop. _Three._

He really should have called her back yesterday afternoon. And he hadn't returned Willow's calls, either. _Four._

Maybe it wasn't as bad as he thought. Maybe Anya had called to tell him she was staying at Willow's last night, and Willow had called to make sure he wouldn't worry. _Five._

Sure. Best friends, Willow and Anya. They hung out all the time. _Six._

Right. He shouldn't have laid down after work without setting the alarm, shouldn't have missed picking Anya up at the shop--_seven_--and he _definitely_ shouldn't have slept the night through and had to scurry to get to work on time… and totally spaced on the fact that she'd never come home. _Eight._

Flowers, and he'd take her out to dinner. And a movie. _Nine._

No, not a movie. Not after the Dracula marathon. Dancing. She'd like dancing. _Ten._

Xander reset the bar in the cradles and shook out his arms.

"Good job, Xander," Jacob approved. "This weight isn't much of a challenge for you any more. Hold on while I add ten pounds."

A fierce pride swept over Xander. _Progress!_ He was getting stronger. Look out demons, vamps, and bug-eyed monsters, Punching Bag Xander would soon be dead and buried. Of course, Mickey still knocked him down with depressing regularity when they sparred, but he _thought_ it was starting to take him a little bit longer.

Jacob nodded, Xander set his hands and lifted the bar, and it felt like he was right back where he'd started. _One._

No, damn it all, he was ten pounds further along. He gritted his teeth and pushed through the fatigue. _Two._

Maybe if he brought Anya with him to the gym, she would understand what this meant to him. _Three._

If she was even still talking to him. Now _would_ be the time she finally started to stand up for herself. Now, when he actually needed some slack from her. _Four._

No, bag the dinner and dancing out. Digging himself out of this hole would require some serious groveling and dedicated pampering. _Five._

He'd pick up her favorite Thai take-out, clean his place, and fill it with candles and music and flowers. _Six._

Yes--good plan. Now all he had to do was find Anya. He'd be done soon. Two more machines, twenty more minutes of free weights, and a half hour of sparring. _Seven._

_Eight._

_Nine._

_Ten._

_The Penthouse, Mircean Towers_

_Center city Sunnydale_

_That evening_

Vlad stood well back in the cool, lengthening shadows and watched through the terrace doors as day edged slowly into night. The sun blazed, staining the rooftops with seeping crimsons and fiery, dancing oranges, but darkness crept and skulked and inexorably swallowed the city. Lights flashed, in buildings, streets, vehicles, and Vlad laughed softly. Pathetic mortals. They actually thought they were_safe_, surrounded by all that false light. How little they understood.

He heard the doors to the suite close and sensed Luka's silent, deferential approach. Vlad turned, dismissing the small, mewling city, and nodded at his steward.

"My prince," Luka bowed. "Anyanka is mine."

"Excellent," Vlad hissed, stalking across the room and clasping Luka's shoulders. "Was the spell required?"

A small, sultry smile flitted across Luka's normally implacable face. "No, my prince, but I cast it nevertheless. She will come to me again tonight, and believe she does so entirely of her own will. She will be eager to do as you wish."

Vlad's grip tightened. "Her power is not lost, then?"

"Power lives within her--a great deal more than anticipated. But it remains beyond her grasp."

"Her humanity interferes," Vlad mused. He clapped Luka's shoulder and released him, pacing back to the terrace doors. "But the ritual and the new amulet will restore her."

Luka hesitated, and Vlad snapped his gaze back around. Luka answered the silent command.

"My prince, I have discovered that Angelus' soul was restored _before_ the Slayer sent him into the Sidian Hell."

"So he spent nearly one hundred years in _torment_?" Vlad scowled, a wordless growl ripping through his chest. "The Romany curse was powerful to begin with. It may no longer be possible for _anyone_ to break it now."

"_Nasty_ curse," Drusilla pouted, rising from the chaise and the deep pocket of shadows blanketing that half of the room. She stepped into the moonlight, the dark red silks of her gown leeching her pale limbs of all color. "It took Daddy away from me _twice_."

Vlad could sense the power moving within her. He held out his hand, waiting until she laid her fingers lightly across his. "Tell me about Angelus," he prompted gently. "He was magnificent, was he not?"

"Vicious," she grinned, toying with the buttons of his shirt. "Merciless. We fed on whole families." Drusilla closed her eyes, swaying against him as memories took her. "He could always get the little ones to let him in."

She stilled, and Vlad recognized the glitter of prescience in the cold blue eyes now staring straight through him. "Daddy went away," she continued breathlessly. "He won't like your party. But my Spike is here. Stronger than Daddy, and angry--black as spilled blood…"

Spike?_Stronger_ than Angelus? Not according to all his other sources. Vlad tipped Drusilla's chin up, watching as the power gradually ebbed. He could not afford to ignore her insight, or the implications to his plans. William could yet prove useful, but only under his control. Drusilla blinked, finally returned to the moment, and Vlad stroked her long, white neck.

"Bring William to me," he softly demanded. "Now."

Drusilla squealed and clapped with excitement and darted to the hallway.

"Send Tomas with her, Luka," Vlad ordered, watching as Drusilla primped and posed in front of a hallway mirror that did not reflect her glorious madness. "Tell him to make sure their history does not distract Drusilla from her task."

"Yes, my prince. Shall I retrieve Anyanka now?"

Vlad shook his head. One other loose end to master before he would take what he'd come for. "Bring my niece first."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

_Sunnydale Memorial Gardens_

_The same night_

A twig snapped to her right and Buffy whirled, wooden stake poised. Beside her, Riley tensed as well. He signaled, a military gesture left over from the Initiative, and Buffy nodded and silently circled left around the mausoleum. Riley faded right, rounded the corner, and Buffy breathed deeply for the first time all night.

_That's not fair,_ she winced. It wasn't Riley's fault she was dreaming about rough sex with practically every man she'd ever met--and with one she hadn't. Buffy shuddered, her grip on the spike tightening. That dream where_Giles_had been the one to morph into Mystery Man had been especially freaky.

She reached the crypt's entrance first and darted in, not waiting. Just like every other mausoleum, the stone sepulcher in the middle, everything dank, dark, cold… _cold stone against her bare skin, cold metal around her wrists, but hot--so hot--everywhere Angel had gripped her, bruised her, torn at her--_

Wood splintered and cracked and Buffy blinked and stared at the shattered spike in her hand. She made herself unclench her fist, dropping the remains of a once perfectly good stake, and pulled another from her jacket pocket with a hand that trembled.

What the_ hell_ was wrong with her? Buffy shook her head, relaxed her fists, and made herself finish searching the mausoleum. _Damned dreams. Did her dark side have to pick _now_ to show itself?_

"Nothing," Riley said from the doorway, his stance relaxed.

_Nothing but dreams._ Buffy nodded and followed him out, rolling her shoulders to try to ease some of the knots. Just like everything else these days--nothing was ever there when she turned around. She was beginning to wonder if the Hellmouth had frozen over or something.

She paused on the stone steps, sucking in the cool night air, and stared out across the cemetery. Not just nothing--_absolutely_nothing. Her skin prickled. So where was the exploding demon hiding?

"Let's cut through those trees," Buffy suggested. Maybe they _had_ heard someone, and maybe--_please,_please_ give her something to fight_--he'd jump out at her from behind a tree.

"Good idea." Riley fell into step beside her. "Oh, I almost forgot. Willow was looking for you this afternoon."

"Thanks." Buffy winced again. She'd avoided Riley so successfully all day that she'd managed to avoid everyone else, too. "I'll call her after patrol."

"Think you could make a party next Thursday? It'll be the frat's first in the new house."

Buffy swallowed, hard. "Sure," she managed. She'd have this under control by then. No dark side-spawned dreams were going to ruin their relationship or their sex life or anything else between them. _Against the wall, scraping her naked back with each thrust, dizzy and gasping with Riley's hands around her throat--_

"So… how was your day?" Riley asked, glancing at her.

_Tense,_ she nearly blurted. _Exhausting. I can't close my eyes without dreaming, and I can't get those dark eyes and all this violent sex off my mind._

"Early bird lecture," Buffy groaned instead, "which was mainly a refresher on how to sleep with my eyes open. Something I perfected in Comp 101 last year, but there was that big brain dump over the summer, so now I'm--"

"Buffy," Riley interrupted her babbling, his hand ghosting gently through her hair.

Buffy flinched away from even that light touch. She couldn't help herself. Riley froze.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong now," he said stiffly, "or are we going to pretend for _another_ night that I haven't noticed how you don't want me to touch you?"

Buffy kept walking, skirting a freshly dug grave and staring down into the gaping blackness. "It's not you, Riley," she whispered miserably.

"Of course it's me," he snapped, touching her arm just long enough to spin her back around. He held both hands up. "I don't see anyone else here touching you."

"_Xander_ touched me," she bristled, flinging her stake into the pile of dirt. "And _Giles,_ and _Angel,_ even _Parker_--against a wall, across a crypt, on the ground, on a desk--and always at the end that man I can't remember. _It's not just you._"

Riley stared at her, jaw hanging open, shock widening his eyes, and Buffy realized what she'd just said.

"No," she stammered, "not like that. I didn't mean _that._" She reached for him, and Riley jerked back.

"Then what the hell _did_ you mean?" he gasped.

_"Dreams,"_ she explained. "They were just dreams!"

_"What?"_ Now Riley did come closer, hurt in his eyes, angry confusion pouring off him in waves. "You _dream_--about Xander and Angel--and _Giles?_--and you don't want _me_ to touch you?"

Buffy crossed her arms, suddenly cold. "You're in them, too."

Riley ran a hand raggedly through his hair. "I don't get this, Buffy. Not at all. You're pushing me away over some _dreams_?" He waited expectantly, hands on his hips, and Buffy held herself tighter and shivered.

_You beat me down in those dreams--all of you--hurting me, taking me like animals, but I don't fight, I don't even try to get away, because I'm too busy begging for more and--and--getting _off_ on it._

But the words clogged her throat and helplessly Buffy shook her head. Riley didn't move, but right in front of her eyes he went shuttered and closed and completely withdrew from her.

"Riley," she choked, "please. I just--"

"What, Buffy?" he shrugged, distant and cold. "You just what? Need some space?"

"Yes," she managed hoarsely, ashamed by how relieved she was.

"Fine," he snapped. "Take all the space you want." Then he pivoted and walked away.

And she wasn't relieved any more.

He was out of sight in moments, and she stood alone in the middle of a completely deserted cemetery, wondering how she'd ever make this up to him. What could she possibly say…

She blinked. She really was alone. The cemetery really was _completely_deserted. As it had been for days. She hadn't staked a vampire or beaten up a demon… in nearly a _week_.

Buffy sniffed and wiped her eyes, yanked her stake out of the dirt, and headed for her Watcher.

_The dorms, Sunnydale University_

_The same night_

Willow dropped the stack of books on her desk and sighed in relief. The last batch. Seven books. Another nine or ten hours of reading and taking notes and she'd have all the information she'd ever need on The Roles of Women in Developing Nations.

She shrugged out of her backpack, hanging it on the back of her chair, and scattered the books across her desk, sorting them. Colonial America. Africa. South America. Another Africa. She frowned. Maybe she should go chronologically. She shuffled them again, pulling out the survey books for their own pile.

She paused, a book in each hand. Maybe by topic would be better. This one focused on family issues, this one on women in industry. Willow sighed and abruptly shoved all the books off to the side. Great. She couldn't even sort the books. How was she going to concentrate enough to read them?

Tomorrow. She'd finish the research tomorrow. Willow sagged onto her chair. If tomorrow was anything like today, she wouldn't even be able to_find_ Buffy or Xander, much less _talk_ to them, so she'd have plenty of time to work on the paper. It wasn't due for three weeks anyway.

God, if she didn't talk to Buffy soon… Willow yanked off her jacket and let it slide to the floor. Why now? Why--_now_--would she be having these doubts? She _loved_ Tara. There was no question in her heart or her mind about _that_. She'd been _with_ Tara for nearly a year. This couldn't be some lame, man-hating rebound response--not after an entire year. Willow dropped her head in her hands. Damn it, they were just _dreams._ If Oz was showing up in her dreams to kiss her breathless, it was just because--just because--

Oh,_hell_.

Willow surged out of her seat. But _Dracula_. Why couldn't she stop thinking about Dracula? Showing up with those hands, those eyes, that whiskey-smooth voice and that delicious accent… Willow paced.

Power--_yes_--maybe she was attracted to power. Dracula had power, and Oz, even though she hadn't known that at first. Same with Tara. It didn't have to be a gender thing--the commonality. Did it? Anyway, did she need a_word_ to define herself? _Homo_sexual,_bi_sexual--what did it matter? Couldn't she stick with just plain _sexual_?

She winced. _Sexual_worked. She hadn't been wondering about _talking_ with Dracula. And Oz certainly wasn't doing spells when he invaded her dreams--he was doing _her._ Even Tara had been incredibly attentive lately. Maybe… did she sense something?

Her watch softly beeped the hour at her. Damn, it was late--Tara would be back from her study group soon. Willow scooped up her jacket and keys and headed for the door. There was no way she could keep this from Tara any longer. Tara would see--and then she would want to talk.

Willow gripped her keys so tightly they hurt her hand. She could not--_would_ not--talk to Tara about this. It would only hurt Tara, and hurting Tara for no better reason than to get her own head on straight about her own damned sexuality was _not_ an option. Maybe Buffy was at Riley's. They should be back from patrol soon. And if not, well… She'd just have to figure this out on her own.

_Le Chat Noir, a club in Southwest Sunnydale_

_The same night_

Spike took a long drag of his cigarette and exhaled slowly, watching the crowded dance floor through the haze of smoke. The din was incredible, the close pack of writhing bodies sweaty and sleek.

_Pretty, pretty,_ he grinned to himself, eyeing a pair of small, slim blondes. All his for the taking--_all his._ He took a last drag and crushed the cigarette into the wall behind him.

_Enough._ It didn't matter any more who Buffy had killed--or what Vlad had intended by sending some nameless imposter to die in his place. Spike was through waiting for him to show up, through toying with Buffy and her Scooby mates. He'd savored walking into their homes,_playing_ the helpless puppy they loved to kick around--and watching them sleep as he'd considered hundreds of ways to kill each of them. _All_of them. _But no more waiting. No more caution. Now _he wanted their terror, their suffering... their life's blood. _Tonight. All his._ Like those blondes… Spike licked his lips and stepped out of the shadows.

A little dancing, a little seduction, a little snack to start the slaughter off right--the blonde with the long neck and the longer neckline down to her navel. No more vagrants to hide his return, no more of the stench of the streets, _no more. Just Riley first, Buffy last, and all the rest in between, one at a time, on their knees, on their KNEES, broken, bleeding, begging_--

_That perfume--_

Spike whirled.

"You remembered," Drusilla sighed, twining her arms around his neck, arching into him, soft and yielding against his arousal, and stunned, he slid his hands around her.

Remembered?_Remembered?_ A cold fury tightened his fingers on her hips.

"Forget my _sire_?" he snarled sarcastically. "How's South America these days, pet? Not enough down there to get you worked up?"

Her eyes locked on his, Drusilla leaned slowly back against his hands, wrapping one leg around him, blatantly cradling his hard, pulsing length. "Missed you," she crooned. "Did you miss me? My poor boy."

He beat the rage back down. If she was here, now, then _she_ was what he'd been waiting for. He lifted her against him, backed her into the shadows, and thrust her roughly into the wall.

"Oh, Spike," Drusilla breathed, going still, "_strong_ again, _mine_ again--"

"_Not_yours, Dru," he spat. "_No one's_--_ever_ again. Now tell me what he wants."

She laughed, not the high, childish giggle, but the low, sultry, knowing purr that sizzled down his spine and tightened every muscle in his body.

"You," Drusilla murmured. "He wants you." She slipped from his grasp, her cool, soft fingers trailing across his chest as she danced away from him, her eyes flashing.

_He was here._ The knowledge sang in him as he watched her glide through the shadows. Vlad was here, and it was time. He would see them all suffer. _And it would begin tonight._ Spike resettled his jacket on his shoulders and followed.

_Giles' home_

_The same night_

Buffy pushed open the door to Giles' before she was even done knocking and walked in.

Giles took one look at her and stood, dropping the book in his hand to the table. "What's wrong? Where's Riley?"

"I sent him home," she waved off the concern, pacing. "Riley's not the problem. Giles, nothing attacked us on patrol tonight. Absolutely _nothing_. Not even any new vampires at the cemeteries. In fact, I haven't killed or even _fought_ a vamp or a demon in a week--maybe two, now that I'm thinking about it."

He frowned. "We've had quiet weeks before, Buffy. What's so different about this one that you're pacing in my living room at midnight?"

She made herself stop, made herself face him, and took a deep breath. "I'm dreaming, Giles," she reported. "Since last night. Sex with a capital X-rated, with a couple of twists on top of it."

Giles took off his glasses and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "I'm not sure I--"

"_Everyone_'s in them," she interrupted. "Angel, Xander, Riley--even you."

Eyebrows raised, Giles slowly sat.

Buffy started pacing again. "Twist number one is that you all morph into this incredible tall dark and handsome at the end of the dream, but I don't know who he is. I mean--in the dream I know him, but once I wake up I'm clueless."

"And… twist number two?"

Heat uncurled, deep in her belly. Buffy clenched her fists and fought for calm. "Pain," she said flatly. "The sex always gets_really_ rough--with me at the receiving end. You--they--everyone beats the hell out of me and uses me and the worst part is that I _like_ it, Giles. I'm even _begging_ for it."

"Well," Giles coughed, "they don't exactly sound like your usual prophetic dreams. Perhaps you--"

"I thought it was my dark side," she snapped, whirling, nerves stretched to breaking. "But now I'm not so sure."

Giles shook his head. "Forget the dark side, Buffy--this is Sunnydale, not Star Wars, and you're not _that_ Chosen One."

Buffy glared. "I'm about to jump out of my skin and you're making pop culture jokes?"

He shrugged. "It's late, and I've just spent two weeks searching for non-existent references to the Slayer's dark side to substantiate the word of _Dracula_. Let's consider the source and move on, Buffy. These dreams are more likely a warning, rather than prophecy, but a warning of _what_ specifically I couldn't even begin to guess. Especially with so little activity out there."

"Not just likely--_definitely_ a warning," she insisted. "It's not normal quiet, it's something's coming quiet. The audience is screaming, Giles, and any second now _something_ is going to jump out at me."

"All right, Buffy," Giles said quietly. "I believe you. It's just a little difficult to respond without more information. Is there anything else in your dreams that might give us a clue? What about this man you mentioned?"

Buffy closed her eyes, a sudden, restless shiver shaking her. "There's nothing I can do against him," she whispered. "I don't even want to try. By the time he shows up I'm down--and desperate for something I can only get from him." She blinked, and turned wide eyes to her Watcher. "He totally dominates me, and he's brutal, and all I do is beg for more," she confided. "Why would I want someone to treat me like that, Giles--why would I even dream it?"

"You yourself aren't necessarily looking for a partner to take literal, sexual supremacy over you," Giles mused. "If these dreams are a warning, as I suspect, this man could metaphorically be anything from general complacency to a bona fide, demonic opponent."

"Great. Why can't I ever have dreams with clear, Insert-Tab-A directions?" Buffy dropped into the nearest chair and tiredly brushed her hair back. "What do I do, Giles? How do I prepare?"

Giles sighed and pushed his glasses back on. "We've done all we can for the moment, and I haven't been able to reach Charles yet. I'll make a few more calls and see if I've missed anything. Why don't you get everyone together first thing in the morning? We'll start a more systematic search of Sunnydale--news, records, police reports--and see if we can narrow this threat down."

"Good," Buffy nodded, exhaling slowly as she pushed restlessly back to her feet. "A plan. Action. Now all I have to do is make it through the night without another round of Buffy Does Sunnydale dreams driving me straight to the funny farm. If I can even get to sleep at all."

"Do you want to stay here tonight?" Giles waved at the sofa. "Maybe if I'm here when you wake up, I can help you remember more."

Buffy shook her head and started backing toward the door. "Thanks, Giles, but remembering what happens in the dreams isn't a problem."

"Ah. All right then, Buffy. I'll see you in the morning."

She dredged up a smile that did nothing to allay the concern in her Watcher's eyes and made herself quietly, carefully close the door behind her. She got as far as the street before the itch under her skin had her breaking into a run.

Forget it. There'd be no sleep for her tonight. She wasn't waiting around for _dreams_to come to her--or for the latest crop of vampires and demons to crawl out from under their rocks. She was the _Slayer._ She'd patrol. She'd find _them_. And then she'd pummel a few faces until someone, somewhere, spilled and gave her something to go on.

_The Penthouse, Mircean Towers_

_Center city Sunnydale_

_The same night_

Spike leaned back against the smooth wall of the elevator and dug another Marlboro out of the pack. "Well well well," he drawled, lighting the cigarette. "We're moving up these days, aren't we, Dru? A limousine, the penthouse, new togs." Spike exhaled, blowing a cloud of smoke past their silent chaperone. "Even a bellhop."

Tomas ignored him, but Drusilla grinned and spun about, sending her pricey silk gown swirling around her pale legs. "Party clothes," she confided, childishly excited. "It's almost time for the party--and _we're_ invited."

Vlad's lackey stiffened, and Spike took another long, lazy drag. "Are we?" he said softly.

Dru nodded, grinning like a three-year-old, and danced to him. She burrowed into him, nuzzling at his chest, and now her words were low and sultry. "I told him," she whispered. "I knew he couldn't have the party without _you_--not after I_ saw_."

She'd seen? Seen what? _His freedom?_ Spike flicked the cigarette to the floor and sank his fingers into her hair, winding the long, silky strands around his hands as she arched voluptuously into his hold. He'd sooner break her lovely neck than let her spill his news before he was ready. Unless… she already had? He tightened his fists in her hair. "Saw what, pet?" he finally, sharply prodded. "What did you tell him?"

The elevator _pinged_, the doors gliding open, and Drusilla laughed and slid away, backing into the foyer, her glittering eyes thick with madness and power. "Come," she crooned. "He's waiting."

Spike stared. She _did_ know. But--had she told Vlad? _Or anyone else?_ Had the word gotten out_--gotten to Buffy?_

"Spike" Drusilla pouted, draping herself wantonly against the elegant double doors. "Don't you want to take what's yours?"

Spike growled and grabbed at the closing elevator doors and shoved them back apart. It didn't matter who knew. Not any more. Because tonight he took _everything_ he wanted. Slowly he followed her, Vlad's lackey a wary step behind him.

Drusilla grinned, a fierce, wolfish twist of her hard, red lips, and whirled. The doors flew open before her violent strength, cracking hard against the walls.

Inside all was silence, and shadows, and waiting.

But Spike was through with waiting.

He brushed past Drusilla and stalked the length of the hall, ignoring the servants who scuttled through the suite. He didn't need them to tell him where Vlad was--and Vlad knew he was coming. Spike entered the palatial corner room, smirking at the stunning view of the city he hated and all the expensive, overdone furnishings, and vaulted into the tall, plush chair that waited for him by the fireplace.

"Hello, Vlad," he said cheerfully. "What the bloody hell took you so long?"

"William," Vlad acknowledged coolly from the depths of the facing chair. He raised a mocking eyebrow. "You were expecting me?"

"Oh, come on," Spike drawled, crossing his legs and digging out another cigarette. "Not even _this_Slayer could dust Vlad the Impaler in two days. Assuming you would have been stupid enough to waltz into town, set up in the only castle within five hundred miles, _and_ tackle Buffy head on. Who'd she waste?"

A small glint in Vlad's cold, dark eyes, an even smaller lift of his lips, and Spike knew he'd scored with the Count. Vlad shrugged. "My servant, Mikhail. Regrettable, but necessary."

"Poor Mick," Spike sighed. "Not much of a challenge for her." Dru's perfume drifted to him, and a moment later she perched on the arm of his chair herself, leaning back, her fingers negligently toying with his collar. Spike allowed it, liking the image. "Still--he served his purpose." Vlad merely smiled, confirming nothing, and Spike decided to advance the game.

"So now that the Slayer thinks you're dead…" He paused, slowly, meticulously lighting the cigarette and then easing the lighter shut. Spike glanced up, pleased that he had the Count's full attention. _Another score._ "What do you want, Vlad?" he said softly.

Vlad laughed, the smooth, smug sound tightening Spike's gut. "A few well drawn conclusions do not make you of any use to me, William," Vlad taunted. "Not when I'm well aware you've been neuteredby that ridiculous Initiative."

_He didn't know yet._ Spike very nearly laughed out loud himself with delight at the realization--his freedom was still _his_ card to play. But beside him Drusilla stiffened, hissing in displeasure. Spike backed her down with a glance. _"Neutered?"_ he drawled. "That's _not_ what they cut off, Vlad. And they may have been ridiculous, but they were also well funded, well armed, _and_well drugged G.I. Joe's. They would have given even you a problem."

"I sincerely doubt that," Vlad scoffed. "You're making excuses."

"My only _excuse_was half a bloody second when I wasn't looking," Spike snapped, disgust clogging his throat. "And I've paid for that--you have no fucking idea how I've paid." He took a long drag of his cigarette, letting the bitter taste and smell of ashes soothe his senses, and beat the roiling fury back down. "You're boring me, Count. If I'm so useless, then why did you send for me?"

Surprize flashed deep in Vlad's eyes, then was gone. "Only a fool would ignore Drusilla's uniquevision."

"A mistake I never made, either," Spike agreed, while Dru preened. "No fools here."

Vlad's keen gaze raked sharply across him. "I'm far from satisfied, William. Why are you still in Sunnydale? The Initiative's butchers are long gone--no one can help you here."

Spike snickered. "What--_leave_? And pass up the chance to sponge off the _Slayer_?"

Vlad frowned. "You disappoint me."

He'd been hunted too long. Instinct had Spike shoving Drusilla to the floor and lunging up and away from the chair. The head of the pike tore through the high back precisely where his heart had been. Drusilla's _chaperone_. Spike snarled and transformed and leapt.

Tomas tried to duck and twist away, but Spike hooked his neck and took him down beneath him. He rolled up and out of the landing, grabbed and whirled and _heaved_, and sent Tomas crashing high through the glass, screaming as he cleared the balcony railing and plummeted from view.

Spike spun back around, wind whipping through the room, scattering broken glass and wildly stoking the fire, but no one else came at him. Vlad hadn't even left his chair. Drusilla, grinning fiercely at him, climbed back to her feet.

"Did you really think I'd be that easy?" Spike sneered. He wrapped his fingers around the pike and yanked it back through and shattered it across the chair. "Let me make this clear for you, you pompous ass. I didn't leave because the Slayer is here, and the Hellmouth is here. Eventually everyone comes to the Hellmouth, active or not--_you_did--so it's not that bloody great a leap to expect that someday _someone_ would show up who could take this fucking chip out. In the meantime,_Count Dracula_,_no one _knows this Slayer like I do I've watched, and I've listened, and I've learned--all her plans, all her resources, her training, every single last one of her moves. Now tell me again how I _disappoint_ you."

For a long moment there was only the wind, whistling darkly through the sumptuous room, snarling Drusilla's hair and furiously stirring her gown. Rage and remembered helplessness beat through Spike, but this was the final test and he knew it. So he held himself still and he waited, despising every moment, as he'd bitterly learned to wait. Until finally, slowly, Vlad nodded.

"My apologies, William. I won't underestimate you again. However, I did not come here to free you."

"I've asked you this once, Vlad," Spike softly replied. "Twice is my limit. I have things to do tonight, and I won't have my time wasted--not even by you. _What do you want?_"

"That's what I'd like to know," a surly voice sharply intruded, and Spike twisted around and stared.

_"Tara?"_ he gasped.

She swept into the room like royalty, all arrogance and sneering contempt, her sloppy softness gone, plainly furious to see him. Vlad's longtime steward Luka trailed her, his eyes flicking about, taking in the damage and frowning darkly.

"What's_Spike_doing here?" Tara snapped at Vlad. "Are you _trying_ to ruin everything?"

Vlad never moved, but Luka swung vicious and brutal and Tara flew over the ruined chair, landing badly in a pool of wind-swept shards of glass and slivers of wood. She crawled slowly to her knees, shock and fear spiking in her, blood dripping from a dozen cuts, and Spike licked his lips.

"Taras," Vlad said, dangerously quiet.

Eyes narrowed, mind crowded with questions, Spike stepped back to keep both of them in better view. Could be good--could be very, very bad--but either way, this was going to be _fun_.

Tara was trembling, but she stood and raised her chin and scowled at Vlad as she wiped the blood from her mouth. "Willow's powers continue to grow. She's nearly as strong as me now. She lacks only experience and--sometimes--control."

"Control," Vlad mused, "an interesting choice of words, Taras. Have _you_ achieved the control I sent you here to obtain?"

Tara paled. "You _know_ the spells don't work that way, Uncle."

Spike's jaw dropped. _Uncle?!_

Vlad surged to his feet and had Tara by the neck before she'd even managed a single step away from him. "You lost that card six months ago, _witch_," he snapped. _"Have you turned her?"_

"The spells take _time_," Tara wheezed, prying futilely at his fingers. "Especially in someone as powerful as Willow! If I'd cast anything stronger she would have _felt_ the darkness. But it grows in her daily--right now it's just arrogance--carelessness--but she'll be addicted to magic soon, and with my spells corrupting her only the darkness will satisfy her cravings. I _swear_, Uncle--she _will_ turn!"

"Turn_Willow_?" Spike scoffed. "You _must_ be joking, Count. I may not be up to speed on the little witch here, but Willow would never betray Buffy. Certainly not for Tara I mean really--look at her."

"Willow's_mine,_" Tara spat, glaring at him over Vlad's unyielding grip. "I've_bound_ her to _me._"

Drusilla laughed, and Spike felt the power sparking in her, saw the uncanny knowledge in her eyes and heard it in her mocking words. "True love's true form growls and snaps and howls." She bared her teeth and clawed at the air. "Get on your knees and howl, little witch."

_"Drusilla,"_ Vlad hissed.

"Allow me to translate," Spike grinned. "Willow's _true_love is a werewolf who skipped town about a year back. Poor Tara," he mocked, shaking his head as she wailed in denial and struggled to reach him. "Did you really think she _loved_you? You were the rebound relationship, babe--you only managed to hold on so long because of the magic."

Power flared again and Dru nuzzled Tara with her demon face as she grabbed a fistful of limp blonde hair. "I smell fear," she moaned. "Lovely, _tasty_ fear. Want a _snack_."

"Take her," Vlad ordered. He shoved Tara at Dru, who twisted her into a brutal hold. Vlad turned dismissively.

_"Uncle!"_ Tara screamed hoarsely. "_Please!_ They're lying--they don't know Willow like I do--_I will turn her!_"

Vlad spun about and back-handed her across the mouth. "That the House of Basarab and my brother Radu's line should be reduced to_this._ I said _take her,_ Drusilla!"

"Spike," Drusilla crooned, licking Tara's neck. "Take what's_ yours._"

She pushed, hard, and a writhing, struggling Tara was suddenly in his arms, smelling thickly of terror and pain and _blood_. Triumph blazed sharp and high in his chest and Spike bared his teeth and sank them into her smooth, sleek neck.

Rich, tangy blood spurted in his mouth and there was shock and Dru's exultant laughter and howling winds and he drank until his belly was full, until life fluttered on its final breaths in the twitching body. Spike opened his hands and let Tara fall softly, limply, to the carpet. He licked his lips, and raised his eyes, and stared at Vlad across the blood-spattered body and the glittering shards of glass and the shattered chair.

"Not quite the blonde I had in mind," he shrugged, "but she'll do."

Vlad cocked his head, cunning and approval and calculation shifting darkly in his eyes. "An unexpected development. And a very pleasant surprize, William. Welcome back."

"Drusilla likes surprizes," Spike winked at her. He swiped at the blood on his chin and licked his hand. At his feet Tara still weakly gasped. Poor Tara, he snickered. Poor _Willow._ He couldn't wait to tell her how delicious her lover had taste--

_Oh. Oh, yes._

Spike dropped to his knees and grabbed a sliver of glass and dragged it roughly across his wrist. Blood oozed, dark and cold, and he held his wrist across Tara's mouth. She spasmed, death taking her, but her lips and her teeth grazed his arm and she swallowed and he threw back his head and howled with delight.

"Willow," he gasped at Vlad, "is going to love _this_surprize. Maybe _Taras_ and I will do her next."

"I have plans," Vlad warned.

"So do I." Spike leapt to his feet and recklessly shoved a lurking Luka away from him. "They're _mine_, Vlad--_all_ of them."

Vlad stared at him for a long moment, plans changing behind his cold, flat eyes. Finally he turned, strolled casually back to his chair, and sat. "Have the glass cleaned up, Luka," he calmly ordered, "and take the body into one of the bedrooms. It shouldn't be long before she awakens. And William… will need another chair."

"Yes, my prince," Luka nodded. He waved at the hallway, and three of the servants swarmed silently into the room to carry out the commands.

"Nice," Spike muttered, releasing his demon face and settling his jacket with an easy shrug. "I could get used to that kind of boot licking."

"Perhaps you shall, William." Vlad waved at the new chair. "I reward my allies well."

"Allies?" Spike grinned. "I like the sound of that." He sat, and this time he pulled Dru down to sprawl across his lap.

"Luka," Vlad continued, "you shouldn't keep Anyanka waiting any longer."

"Anya?" Spike scowled. "What do you need with _her_? She's beyond useless, Count."

"I didn't say Anya," Vlad pointed out.

"No," Spike mused, leaning into Dru's lips on his neck. "You didn't. And the rest of them?"

"Will be yours." Vlad smiled, cold and ruthless. "One way or another."

"Mine," Spike gloated. He grabbed a fistful of Dru's hair and wrenched her head back and licked fierce and hard into her mouth. "_Mine._"


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

_First Quarter Moon_

_The same night_

The pulsing Latin music ended, something techno taking its place, and Anya sighed into the bottom of her empty glass. Oh, _hell_. Luka wasn't coming. She pushed what was left of her twenty at the bartender and another of those lovely pink drinks miraculously appeared.

Now what, she wondered, sipping at the cold, sweet juice. Eleven hundred years giving _others_ their satisfaction and revenge, followed by sixteen miserable months beating herself into whatever she'd thought would make _Xander_ happy. She'd been an idiot for an entire millennium, letting all those pathetic mortals use her like that. Now she was stuck, powerless, all her money in her purse, one small bag of clothes tucked away at the Magic Box. One ex-demon ready to leave Sunnydale behind forever, but no one to help _her_. All she really needed to get herself started was a ride--preferably in whatever direction Luka was going.

But no, she frowned, rubbing at the tightness in her chest. _Nothing_ had gone right for her since the day she'd put her amulet around that wretched Cordelia's neck. What had made her think tonight would be any different?

A hand fell on her bare shoulder and Anya smiled and whirled on the stool and-- _Xander._ An icy weight settled on her.

"_Where have you been?_" he snapped. "You didn't come home last night, you didn't go to work today--I've checked hospitals and morgues and called everywhere I could think of and I was _thisclose_ to getting Buffy and the entire team out looking for you!"

_I'm sorry,_ she very nearly said. The words were there, and the sharp jab of agony in her belly, and the fear--_Don't leave me alone!_--like they'd always been with Xander, like they'd been every single hateful day of her miserable mortal life, but for the first time there was_anger_, boiling up in her and burning away all the emptiness and the uselessness she'd settled for.

Anya smacked his hand off her shoulder. "Where were _you,_ last night when you were supposed to pick me up? At the _gym_again? You haven't cared where I was for weeks, Xander--I didn't think you'd even notice I was gone."

Xander flushed and looked away. "Well of course I--"

"You_didn't_notice, did you," she breathed, realization crashing over her, and fear and fury and the bitter taste of humiliation crackled through her and raised her hand and she swung, hard.

Xander's head snapped back and he staggered. Anya stared dumbfounded at the outline of her hand, growing red and angry on his cheek. _That's it_, she thought. _She'd done it. She was on her own. He would never take her back now._ The people around them grew silent as Xander slowly straightened. Anya started shaking, a wild, skittering rush of panic choking the breath from her. _What had she done?_

"I'm sorry," Xander said softly, not looking at her. "There's no excuse for… I didn't mean to make you think you aren't important, Anya."

She wanted to take it all back--_Don't leave me alone!_--wanted to crawl into Xander's arms and his bed and stay there and be grateful she had somewhere to go--but… "You never made me feel important at all, Xander," she whispered. "I can't be that… _invisible_ anymore."

And then she spotted Luka, tall and gorgeous and breathtakingly sensual, an island of stillness in the middle of the club's chaos as he scanned the crowd from the doorway. Looking for _her._

"I_won't_be invisible anymore," she said firmly, and she grabbed her purse and brushed past Xander and started weaving her way to Luka. He saw her then, his face lighting with pleasure, ignoring everyone else in the room as he pushed purposefully to her.

"Anya," he breathed her name, tilting her chin up, his kiss sweeping soft and seductive across her lips. "I'm so sorry I'm late, I… Why are you trembling?"

Anya shook her head, clinging to the strength of his arms as they enveloped her. "Can we go, Luka? Now? Please?"

"Has someone been bothering you?" he frowned, looking suspiciously around the club.

A bubble of laughter found its way up through her throat. _Relief_, she realized. It was over with Xander, and Luka had come after all, and she was desperately relieved. Anya smoothed tentative fingertips along Luka's jaw and drew his gaze back down to her. "He doesn't matter," she said simply.

Luka smiled, his dark, feral look of possessiveness melting her knees as he wrapped his arm around her. "Then let's go."

He really had come for her. Anya leaned happily into Luka as he led her outside. By Avarra, _she could do this._ She could meet new people and go someplace else and _be_ something else. Now all she had to do was figure out what. And… get that ride.

"Luka?"

"You look lovely," he said, pressing her more closely to him. "Did you wear this for me?"

Anya nervously smoothed the skirt of her dress. "Yes--thank you. I… Could we…" _Damn._ She'd really have to work on how to _talk_ to people. Anya sighed.

Luka drew her to a stop, a low, throaty laugh rumbling in his chest. "What is it, Anya?"

She stared up at him, at his enigmatic little smile and that piercing blue gaze, and struggled to find the words. What had he said, when they'd talked for that little bit last night? "It's tomorrow," she finally blurted.

Luka blinked at her, until the memory flared in his eyes. "So it is. You wish to talk business now?"

"No, well, not--not _business,_" she stammered. "I wish--what I want is to leave Sunnydale."

Anya held her breath, fingers clenched in her skirt. He could cut her down, he could humor her, he could offer polite suggestions about other cities--

Instead he slowly nodded. "I may be able to help you."

Anya's jaw sagged. _Had he just said…_

Luka grinned and kissed her, hard and urgent. "Come," he whispered against her lips.

Stunned, her mind whirling, Anya blindly followed. Until he led her to a limousine.

"A limousine?" she gasped. _Waitaminute._ Mortal life handed her Xander and smelly socks, then _Luka_ and a _limousine_? That kind of thing didn't happen--especially not to _her._ Not unless… Anya looked around. Was there another vengeance demon lurking somewhere?

Luka waved the driver back behind the wheel and opened the door for her himself. "My employer can be very generous, Anya." When she still couldn't make her feet move he tugged gently on her hand. "I thought you wanted to leave."

Anya bolted into the back and perched on one of the plush side cushions, gaping at the luxurious interior. "Maybe we _should_talk business," she managed. "Is this for real?"

"I would not be here if it wasn't," he murmured, settling himself on the back seat. Luka watched her for a long moment in the snug, dimly lit space, that mysterious little smile curling his lips again, while her heart pounded. The car pulled smoothly away, and Luka held out his hand. "Come to me, Anya."

Another decision. This time she didn't hesitate. Anya placed her fingers in his and let him pull her astride his lap, reveling in the rush of pleasure as those strong hands skimmed under her dress and traced teasing circles on her thighs.

Luka pressed a soft, wet kiss to her jaw and Anya raised her chin, silently begging. He chuckled, his breath warm against her skin, his teeth nipping lightly at her neck for her impatience. "Tell me what you want," he said, the soft words breathed into her ear.

Anya shivered and clutched at his shoulders. "You," she pleaded.

"You have me," he crooned, leaning back, his clever fingers gliding higher, his blue eyes glittering in the darkness like the sea at night. Arrogance flickered there, and triumph, and then his fingers pressed slick and deep and sure into her and she shuddered and moaned, heat flashing in her belly and shimmering under her skin and searing her breath away. And still the endless blue of his gaze called to her, held her strong and steady, her only anchor against the scalding waves of heat. "_Now, tell me what you want._"

"Power," she moaned, "for _me_ this time," the words slipping out of her all unthinking, more than she'd wanted to give him, but he was everywhere, inside her, under her skin, deep within where she hid her secrets.

"I can give you power," he growled, and pushed her down to the floor. Luka grabbed her hands and yanked them high above her head and Anya arched, keening, empty again. "What price would you pay?" he demanded, nuzzling sharply at her neck as he loomed over her.

"Anything," she swore recklessly, beyond caring, her heart stripped bare, _knowing_that only here, _now_, with _him_, could she take what she wanted.

"Anything?" he hissed, dangerous and dark, poised above her, and she shouted_"Yes!"_ No longer asking, _demanding_--_here, now, _with_ him._ Luka growled and pounded into her, sleek and strong and hard, driving her sharply, relentlessly up into a howling maelstrom of savage carnality and furious demand. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think--not the price, not her name--they were nothing more than useless words scattered on the hot, writhing wind that whipped her and shredded her and still he moved, harder, faster, no quarter, no mercy, just blazing blue eyes and slick, clawing need that seared and tore and finally blasted her into jagged, quivering pieces.

It seemed forever that she lay there beneath him on the floor of the car, mind numb and limbs heavy with exhausted satiation. But finally Luka stirred, raising himself to his elbows. Anya blinked up at him, staring bemusedly at the damp hair curling at his brow, at his massive shoulders, at the smug, supremely satisfied grin, at… _at the sparks of power fading from his eyes._

"You have power," she gasped.

"Some," he acknowledged. He bit lazily at her lips, his eyes still open and flickering and drawing her in. "But nothing like yours."

Something flared deep within her, a familiar fullness and breathtaking completion like only one thing she had ever known in over a thousand years. Anya laughed and giddily reached for her power--_and found herself blocked_.

"What did you do?" she wailed, frantically struggling to get out from under him. "It's there--_it's there!_--why can't I touch it?"

Effortlessly he held her pinned. "I cast a small spell only, to let you feel the power for yourself. It was always in _you_--not the amulet. _That_ was only ever the trigger."

She froze. "You… You know who I am--I mean, who I _was_--don't you?"

"Of course. Your reputation precedes you, Anyanka, in every way. Beauty, candor, a charming naiveté… and great power, just as I was told."

He waited, watching her, but for the first time in her entire worthless mortal life Anya knew the rules of the game. She gathered her scattered wits and took a deep breath. He'd come for her _for a reason_--something only _she_ could give him? "All right, Luka. You offered power, and I said I'd pay anything. What do _you_ want?"

"A boon."

She raised a skeptical eyebrow. "That's all? You'd give me back my powers for a single favor? What kind of a boon are we talking about?"

Luka shook his head. "Not for me--for my master. All I can tell you is that he holds a ritual that will restore you, and tonight he will obtain a particular amulet to act as your trigger. Once you have regained your powers, he asks only that you grant a single favor as he wishes."

Anya frowned. "I was a vengeance demon, Luka. He has to be _scorned_ for my powers to work. Plus they always worked better for women."

"You must trust me, Anyanka, and believe that my master knows what he's doing. I assure you, you will not be displeased with what he asks of you." Luka shifted, covering her breasts with his hands and lazily kneading them through the fabric of her dress. "Are we agreed, then?" he asked huskily.

"Wait--Luka--I can't think," she managed, dizzy with sudden need, losing herself in the desire flaring high and bright and hot in the liquid blue of his gaze.

"Don't think," he crooned, grinding his hips against her, and mindlessly she arched into him. "_Feel_, Anyanka--feel the power, inside you where it's always been, _waiting_ for you."

_"My power,"_ she whispered, falling deeper into whirling sapphire currents, Luka hard again within her, power skittering under her skin. _So close, so close! _To never grow old, never be helpless, never be alone or empty for all eternity… Luka's mouth was hot on hers, his fingers demanding, his skin sleek, and Anya raked her fingers down his back and wrapped her legs around him and cried out once more, _"Yes."_

_The Summers home_

_The same night_

Spike exhaled slowly, grinding the stub of his cigarette into the tree, and stared through the cloud of smoke and the front window at the woman walking tiredly through the dimly lit living room. Beside him Taras was silent and still as her new-found death.

"Behold Joyce Summers," Spike said softly. "She doesn't look like much, does she? But it'll _kill_ Buffy when she dies."

"Then take her and let's move on," Taras goaded, licking her lips. "I'm hungry"

"You don't get it, pet," Spike lazily grinned. "I don't need to take her--Joyce is _already_ dying."

Taras stiffened. "How can you tell _that_?"

"I know what death smells like," he shrugged, savoring his last look at the mother of the Slayer. "It's unmistakable on her now. She'll die, all right. Maybe in a month, maybe a year. I can't tell how long. But she'll be afraid, and weak, and helpless… which means Buffy will be afraid, and weak, and helpless. And _that_ is what makes my demon heart sing."

Spike felt Taras' fingers combing playfully through his hair. "Are you _positive_we can't just kill them all tonight?"

He turned. "Killing is too quick, pet. What I want more is for them to _suffer_, and as your dear uncle pointed out, they have to _live_to be trulymiserable."

"But not Willow," Taras pouted, leaning into him and wrapping her arms around his neck. "You said I could _kill_ Willow."

"Patience, my darling daughter," Spike drawled. "It's a virtue--or so I'm told. You'll get your shot."

Taras laughed. "'Darling daughter.' I like that. But I still get to kill Willow. She _must_ be my first."

"She will be," he promised, "eventually." Spike smoothed his hands down Taras' back and over the curves of her hips, kept going until he cupped her ass and could pull her hard into him. "I plan to take my time with Willow," he murmured. "She's Buffy's Number One Friend and the Slayer's Witchy-Woman Sidekick. I'd say that qualifies her for some _very_ devoted attention first--don't you agree?"

Taras arched her back and pulsed softly against him, her eyes glinting in the heavy darkness beneath the tree. "Are you saying you don't think I can take proper care of her?"

"Let's just say there are a few things I can do for her that you can't," he mocked.

Taras snickered, and abruptly Spike pushed her off him. Too much more of this and he wouldn't have enough time for everything he and Vlad had agreed to. "Come on--I told you Willow and Riley wouldn't be here if Buffy's still out on patrol."

Taras fell into easy step beside him. "You stopped, though."

"It's on the way to Riley's."

"Riley's first, then?" she frowned. "Spike, I'm _really_ hungry"

Spike slapped her on the ass. "That, pet, is all I can do for you until we find Willow."

"Stupid little witch," Taras sighed. "Where the hell did she disappear to?"

"Yes, well, your dear old uncle only brought enough four-footed friends to keep a twenty-four-seven watch on the Slayer, so we'll just have to find Willow on our own. What _I_can't figure out is why Buffy's patrolling without Soldier Boy," Spike mused. "He's been all over her all summer."

"Maybe that's why," Taras snorted.

"Well--she won't have to worry about _that_much longer." Spike shot Taras a vicious grin and veered off, anticipation picking up his pace as he cut through the park and headed towards campus. Taras kept up, despite the hunger he knew was gnawing at her belly, until finally--_finally!_--they were at the fraternity house.

Spike motioned Taras to stay back among the trees and leapt nimbly to the rooftop. He stalked to the rear corner in demonic silence and dropped to his belly, leaning far out over the edge until he could see into Riley's room.

How bloody fucking _perfect_. Riley _and_ Willow, having a darling little _téte à téte_. Except… Spike's lip curled back. His part of the evening's festivities was nammering on in the one place he'd never been invited. No matter. _Nothing_ was going to get in his way tonight. Spike dropped soundlessly to the ground and circled back to Taras.

"They're_both_ in there," he hissed triumphantly.

A high, wordless growl shook Taras, her soft, fleshy face turning whipcord lean and feral.

"Patience, pet," Spike crooned, holding back his own transformation with a wild surge of strength. He dug the cell phone Vlad had given him out of his pocket and started punching in Riley's number. "Ask for Willow," he instructed. "You're home sweet home and you're not feeling good and where's your little lovebird to take care of you."

Taras fought back the hunger, her true face buried beneath cool white skin by the time he tossed the phone to her. Spike's keen ears heard Riley answer. "Riley?" Taras greeted him, a hitch in the breathy voice. "I can't find Willow--any idea where she is?"

_"Hey, Tara. Yeah, hold on. She's right here."_

_"Hi, sweetie. What's up?"_

"Willow?" Taras moaned, rolling her eyes at her own pathetic voice. "I'm sorry--I really don't feel good. Can you come home?"

_"Oh, honey, _I'm_ sorry. I know you've been really pushing yourself lately--I should have been there for you. But I'm on my way now, okay?"_

"Okay," Taras softly replied. "Bye." She folded the phone and stepped close to slide it into his pocket herself, her eyes locked glittering and hungry on his. "Too much?"

"Just right," he countered. "They're _always_ that sticky sweet together."

"What do you want me to do?"

"_Go_," he snarled, a mere breath of sound. "Get back to the dorms before her. You've got your key--push open the door to your room and then wait for her in the common bathroom, like you've been getting sick. Willow will find you--and she'll be only too happy to help you to bed. Play it up, make her invite you. Then do whatever you want--but _wait for me_ before you spill any of the little witch's blood. Remember, Taras--you _both_belong to me."

Taras whined, nuzzling at his neck, all trembling submission and tightly leashed anticipation. Then she was gone.

Spike bolted for the front of the house, stopping just outside the circle of light cast by the shiny new porch lamp. He slouched, he shoved his hands in his pockets, he lowered his eyes, and muscle by muscle he wiped the pleasure and the hunger and the strength from his face, his posture, his entire body. Only when he heard Willow's footsteps running lightly through the living room did he move, scuffling dispiritedly up the front steps. The door swung sharply open.

"Oh," Willow stopped short. "Spike. What are _you_doing here?"

He shrugged. "Need to talk to Soldier Boy. Things have been really quiet the past couple of weeks, and I might have a line on why."

"Great, pow wow tomorrow morning about that." Willow brushed impatiently by, the door left open behind her. "Gotta run, Spike--you know the way up, don't you? Riley's still in the same room."

The barrier dissipated with Willow's careless assumptions and welcoming words and Spike shivered, slowly straightening and stepping into the newly rebuilt house. "Thanks," he whispered, grinning smugly, though Willow was long gone. Spike swung the door shut and listened, raising his nose to sniff the close, stale air. One in the kitchen, two upstairs asleep, one couple upstairs having sex… Tempting. But he needed to stay focused. Only Riley mattered, alone in the corner bedroom. Silently Spike climbed the stairs to the upper hallway. He waited a long moment in the darkness outside Riley's closed door, fingers itching, eyes gleaming, the hated voice ringing in his ears.

_You're a useless parasite, Spike._

_I'd have staked you a hundred times by now, if it wasn't for Buffy's pity. But you won't be able to hide behind her forever._

_We caught you, caged you, pulled your fangs--you're _nothing_ now, Spike. And everybody knows it._

"Two minutes," Spike breathed the promise to himself. Then he kicked in the door.

Riley whirled and crouched low in the center of the room. Barefoot, shirtless, he scowled and straightened as Spike stepped into the light spilling through the doorway.

"Just me," Spike smirked, leaning on the doorjamb. "If you were expecting the Slayer, I hear she's painting the lovely burg of Sunnydale red tonight--without you, obviously."

"If you've got something to say, _say it_ and get out," Riley snapped, reaching for his shirt.

"Oh, don't get dressed on my account," Spike carelessly waved at him. And stepped casually into the room. Riley froze. "Nice digs," Spike continued, looking around as he closed the door and softly locked it behind him. "A little too G.I. Joe for my tastes, but I suppose once a Soldier Boy, always a Soldier Boy."

Riley's eyes angrily narrowed. "I never invited you in here. How'd you even get into the house?"

Spike grinned and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. "Willow is so charmingly trusting. It's gonna get her killed one of these days."

An impatient step towards him and Riley smacked the pack away, scattering cigarettes all over the floor.

"That was my last pack," Spike sighed heavily.

"Then pick them up and _get--out._"

Riley loomed over him, crowding close to grasp his arm and shove him to his knees. But Spike relaxed into the motion, keeping to his feet and staggering closer to the desk, and reached out for the chair as if to stop himself. Instead he grabbed the chair and twisted around and swung vicious and hard, endless days of bitter frustration and impotent fury behind the blow. Wood cracked across the arm Riley raised in automatic defense and bone shattered and Spike followed through, driving Riley into the wall. Impact popped the other shoulder, snapped the head back, punched the air out of the lungs, and Spike watched in sizzling, gut-clenching satisfaction as Riley dropped, stunned and gasping, to the floor.

"What's the matter, Soldier Boy?" Spike softly goaded. "Not quite the man you thought you were?" Eyes glazed with horror and pain and shock turned up to him, the mouth moving soundlessly, and Spike exulted in the power and the strength howling once more through his veins. "You're _mine_ now," he growled, and swung the chair _down_, smashing both knees.

Riley screamed in helpless agony, the sound more beautiful than anything Spike had ever heard.

"Broken, bleeding," Spike gloated, tossing what was left of the chair aside. "And absolutely powerless--must be my lucky night. Except--you know what would make this _perfect_ for me, Riley? _Begging_. Begging would just make my entire century. How about it?"

Trembling, face contorted with pain, Riley still managed to spit at him. "Go to hell."

_"Riley?!"_

Panicked pounding on the door, worried shouts from the other frat boys, and Spike crouched and wrapped his hands around Riley's neck before he could call out to them.

_"Hey, Riley--you okay?"_

"If you won't beg for your own life, then how about for theirs?" Spike pressed his thumbs lightly into the carotid arteries, pulsing strong and hot beneath his touch. "Come on, Soldier Boy. Beg for me, or I'll kill them all, one at a time, right here in front of you."

"You don't want them," Riley rasped, trying to lean away from the pressure, his eyes already going unfocused. "They're nothing to you."

_"Riley, man--you in there? What the hell's going on?"_

Spike transformed and tightened his hold and yanked Riley up to him. Riley twitched in his grasp, pain blanching his face and twisting his lips and wrenching a low, sputtering moan from him. "They're dinner," Spike crooned giddily, "and I've been starving for_months_. So beg for their lives, Riley. I _really_want to hear you say please."

There was horror on Riley's face, and desperate fear in his eyes, but when the white, quivering lips forced the word out, it was still somehow more of a demand than a plea.

"Not good enough," Spike sang cheerfully and shook his head. Then he shoved Riley back down and sprang up to open the door.

The first frat boy he threw across the room to crash into the dresser. The second he ducked under and heaved, sending him sprawling across the bed. The third backed uncertainly off, but that just gave Spike time and space to lash out with his foot, shattering the knee cap. He grabbed at the collapsing boy and twisted, grinning as the neck snapped in his hands.

Spike dropped him and whirled, ready for more--_aching_ for more--but number one was motionless on the floor in front of the dresser, the broken, gurgling breaths proclaiming a punctured lung, and number two had scrambled to the headboard, terror freezing him there. And obviously the couple having sex were still… preoccupied.

Spike grabbed an ankle and dragged the boy on the bed to him.

_"Please,"_ the boy mouthed, but the sobbing word had come from Riley.

"About bloody time," Spike sighed, a small measure of his own back from the one who'd taken the most from him. Then he tore the shirt aside and bit down, hard, nearly crushing the boy between his hands as he fed. When the body was empty he let the already cooling husk sag to the bed and slowly turned, blood still hot and sweet on his lips.

_"Monster,"_ Riley spat. He'd managed to roll onto a hip, but it was obvious he wasn't going any further. Not without some help, at least.

"Tell Buffy," Spike drawled, crouching casually down again, "that she should have killed me when she had the chance."

Riley gaped at him, confusion shadowing the eyes now dilated wide with shock and blood loss and, hopefully, concussion.

"How do you feel about wheelchairs?" Spike asked conversationally. Then he grabbed at the broken arm and the dislocated shoulder and Riley howled and Spike heaved to his feet and spun, hurling Riley through the window. Glass shattered and tinkled shimmering down and Spike got to the window just in time to _see_ the impact, to _hear_ and _feel_ the echoes in his own body as Riley _smacked_ into the ground.

Spike rubbed his hands gleefully together and leapt nimbly through the window, landing with one foot to either side of the broken body.

"I should've brought a camera," Spike sighed, memorizing every detail of the glorious sight, reveling in the shallow, stuttering breaths, the odd angles of spine and hips and limbs, in the blood seeping from a dozen wounds and, now, an ear. "You'll live, Soldier Boy," Spike whispered harshly, already hearing the sounds that told him others had heard, others would investigate--others would get Riley Finn to the hospital. "But they won't _quite_ be able to put you back together, eh, Humpty?"

Doors opening, more worried voices, and Spike leaned swiftly down and took a long, slow lick across the worst of the gashes on Riley's chest, holding the blood on his tongue and savoring the richest taste of his entire existence. Footsteps, flashlights--time to go. Spike stepped back into deepest, darkest shadow.

_He'd done it. He'd _destroyed_ Riley Finn._ Life was short, death even quicker. But _suffering_ could last forever. _And when he was done with her inner Scooby circle, this Slayer would suffer as no other before her._

Spike turned and dug his phone out, dialing 911 as he strolled to Willow's dorm, releasing his demon face.

_"911, what is your emergency?"_

"Oh my god," Spike breathlessly moaned, in his best panicked American frat boy accent. "I think he killed them."

_"Who are you, sir, and who are you referring to?"_

"Xander--his name is Xander Harris. There was all this shouting and then Riley went flying out the window and I think Xander killed them!"

_"You're on a cell phone, sir--I need an address to dispatch police and an ambulance."_

"Frat house, on campus--Sunnydale U," he gulped. "Just off Third Street. Oh, hell, Xander--no!"

_"Sir, what's happening, I need--"_

Spike disconnected and folded the phone and tucked it away, a vicious euphoria ripping through his chest. Riley physically crippled, Xander emotionally crippled, with his pathetic little broken heart picked up and grilled by police as an extra bonus. Too bad there wasn't time to put Xander in the hospital bed next to Riley. But Tara was dead and turned, with Anya back to her old demonic self any minute now--if she hadn't been restored already. Spike snickered. Joyce had no idea what was in store for her. Neither, for that matter, did Giles and Angel. But Joyce would wait and Buffy's Boys were in Vlad's hands tonight. Willow, however, was _his_. Sweet, darling, soft little Willow.

_Yes_. Time to rip apart the last leg Buffy had to stand on.

Spike trotted up the steps to Willow's dorm, grinning as he held the door for a drunken co-ed he _seriously_ wished he had time for, whistling as he climbed the stairs two and three at a time. He cracked his knuckles and cheerfully knocked, one eyebrow raising as the door swung slowly in. "Hello?"

"Get in before someone sees her," Willow sobbed angrily, yanking him into the room and shoving the door closed behind him.

Spike sighed and cocked his head, glaring at a bound and gagged Taras sprawled across the bed. "Well, _what_ do we have here?" he muttered.

"They_turned_her," Willow hissed at him like he was too stupid to figure it out, turning her back to him to page frantically through a stack of spell books. "It's got to be here somewhere--it's _got_ to be. I _know_ I didn't throw it away!"

Spike waved at Taras to calm her, dropped an arm around Willow's shoulders, and did his best to ooze sympathy. "Look, Willow, I know this hurts you more than it hurts me, but just what do you think you can do about it with a spell book?"

"Give Tara her soul back," Willow snapped, her shoulders shaking as she began to cry again. _"Where's that damned Romany curse?"_

Spike recoiled in shock and disgust and swiftly covered by plopping down as casually as he could on the bed next to Taras. When Willow didn't turn around, he reached over and began working the knots on the scarf that bound Taras' hands behind her. "The Romanycurse?" he stalled. "Are you sure that's a good idea? I mean--_another_ moody vampire running around with a soul?"

"It's_got_ to be here," Willow muttered, heaving a book aside and reaching for the next. "Oh, God, they _turned_ her. But I won't give up on her--_I can't_ give up on her. I've _got_ to bring her back to me!"

"To be perfectly honest, Will," Spike said softly, pulling the last knot free, "I don't think that's what she wants."

"What?" Willow glanced distractedly over her shoulder, but by then Taras had ripped her gag off and was all over her, leaping up to yank Willow's arms behind her and fling her across the bed.

Spike scooted out of the way and turned on his side, propping his head on his hand to watch the wrestling match. Lithe bodies twisting and panting with effort, silky hair rippling with each motion, long skirts bunched high across satiny thighs… the musky, intoxicating scents of fear and sharp, desperate hunger. It was over far too soon, this time with a softly growling Taras on top and in firm control. Willow inhaled to scream, and Taras swung a vicious backhand across her mouth, leaning down to lick ravenously at Willow's bloody lip.

Willow flinched and twisted her face away. "Spike," she gasped, staring wild-eyed at him, "what are you _doing_?_Help me!_"

"You_must_ be joking," Spike chuckled. "Sweetheart, this is every man's fantasy--in bed with two women."

"Tastes so good," Taras moaned thickly, speech nearly beyond her now, staring at the blood still welling from the wound.

_"No!"_ Willow sobbed, writhing frantically. "I _helped_ you, Spike--I _defended_ you! I--_I bought you blood._"

Taras tightened her hold and swooped down to Willow's mouth, pressing her head into the mattress with the savage kiss she forced. Willow choked, gasping for breath as she tried to turn her head, but Taras moved with her, sucking hard on the full, swollen lips.

"That wasn't friendship," Spike scoffed, stretching lazily and easing the tightness of his jeans across his growing hardness, pleasure shivering under his skin as a slow, crimson trail of blood trickled down Willow's cheek. "That wasn't even the milk of human kindness. That was _pity_, babe. Your problem--_not_ mine."

"Please," Willow managed. "Please don't let her--"

Taras smothered her words with another brutal kiss and Spike grinned, pushing to his knees and shrugging out of his jacket. "That's my favorite word tonight," he gloated, tossing the jacket aside.

Taras raked her fangs across Willow's jaw, heading for the trembling arch of long, pale neck, and Spike grabbed a handful of silky blonde hair and yanked her head back, hard. "You didn't say _please_," he taunted. Taras arched and whined, trembling with a hunger he knew had to be frantic by now, but he didn't relax his hold.

_"Please,"_ Willow begged, terrified gaze locked on Taras' bloody, gaping mouth, repeating the word mindlessly now in a low, soft litany.

"Music to my ears," he sighed, straddling Willow behind Taras and pressing close to rub his groin against the taut, rounded cheeks presented so enticingly. Taras shuddered all over and jerked back into him, sending a wild, jagged rush of arousal shearing through him. Spike tightened his fist in her hair and dragged her up against him, sucking hard on her neck and shoving his other hand under her sweater to claw cruelly at her breasts.

Willow's shocked gasp cut through Taras' mewling whimpers. "What are you_doing_?"

"Distracting her with sex--one hunger for another." Spike nipped harshly at Taras' ear and released her breast long enough to unzip his pants, freeing his deliciously aching member. "That must have been some spell, if you can't even remember what real sex looks like."

"What?"

"Real sex," he replied, voice heavy with mocking sarcasm. Spike looked down at Willow through lowered lashes, watching the emotions chasing across her mobile face as he smoothed his hand down Taras' arched body, breast to waist to smooth, trembling hip. _Confusion_, cutting through the fear.

"You know--man on woman," he continued, sliding his hand under the bunched skirt and the scrap of panties and into slick, pulsing warmth. _Outrage, disgust,_ tightening Willow's mouth and lowering her brow in an angry frown as Taras wordlessly begged.

"Penetration," he crooned, and took her deep and hard from behind. Taras cried out, head pressed back into his shoulder, arching hard and riding his hand with desperate, jerking motions. Willow raised her head, squirming futilely beneath him and Taras, and glared at him.

"That's not Tara," she whispered hoarsely. "We loved--_love_ each other! It was _always_real and perfect, right from the start. Tara would never hurt me, never betray me--_that's not Tara_."

"And I thought you were the smart one," he smirked, relentlessly driving Taras into a frenzy with wicked fingers and a vicious, pounding rhythm. "She betrayed you _from the start_," he crowed, thrusting harshly against each undulating twist of Taras' hips, ripping a keening growl from her throat as she came, shuddering and near sobbing and tearing at his hands.

Spike shoved her aside and fell full length on Willow, wrapping his hands tightly in soft red hair and holding her head still. "How stupid can you be?" he mocked, grinding his hips against her and slowly tonguing the blood from her cheek. _Even sweeter than Riley's._ "Tara cast a _binding spell_ on poor, straight, lovesick little you and you never noticed, never even _questioned_your sudden love for a_ woman_!"

_"NO!"_ Willow howled in denial, fury renewing her strength as she writhed and bucked. Spike reared up again to his knees, grabbing the arm she managed to free from beneath her and twisting brutally until she fell back, half fainting from the pain. "You're hurting me," she whimpered, and then her eyes locked on his in dawning, horrified comprehension. _"You're hurting me."_

_She knew_, trembling terrified and helpless beneath him, everything he'd ever wanted from her. Lust sparked and dark, wild cravings uncoiled and Spike let the transformation take him, lips twisted over his fangs in a vicious, triumphant sneer. "Score one for the little witch."

_"Mine,"_ Taras snarled, lunging for Willow's neck and scrabbling to push him aside. Spike seized her by the throat and cracked her head into the headboard.

"When I say," he growled, holding her pinned until she whined softly, cowering in submission.

"_You_ turned her," Willow gasped. "Oh my God--_you!_"

"Score two." Spike dug Willow's other arm out from beneath his knee and yanked both hands high. "Hold her," he ordered. Taras pounced, hissing at the feel of the pulse pounding beneath her fingers, but she didn't try to bite the pale flesh, eyes begging as she watched him. "Soon," he crooned, stroking her hair. "When I'm finished."

"How?" Willow demanded roughly. "When?"

"When did I turn her?" Spike asked, curbing his hunger--_not so fast, he wanted to savor this_--to knead almost gently at the silk-covered breasts. "Tonight, of course. Or did you mean, 'When did that fucking chip stop working?'"

"It doesn't matter," Willow snapped, yanking furiously--and fruitlessly--at her hands. "Buffy will _kill_ you for this, Spike. Do you really want _the Slayer_ after you?"

Spike laughed softly, unbuttoning the blouse like a tender lover and stroking the creamy flesh free of the lacy bra. "You think I'm stupid enough to still be here when Buffy finds you?"

"_Stupid_ works," Willow spat.

"This from the woman who's on the bottom of the pile." He leaned down to lick at a budding nipple and roughly stroked his hard, pulsing length. "Is that the best you can do?"

"Get off me," she growled, arching with violent, panicked strength. "Get _off_ me!"

"Shhh," he admonished, holding her easily as he reached for the discarded scarf and wadded it up. "We don't want to be interrupted, Willow--I'd just have to kill them, too. Like I did over at Riley's."

Her eyes widened and she gaped at him, speechless with horror. Spike grinned and shoved the scarf into her mouth. "Relax, Willow--I plan on taking a lot longer with you than the two minutes I needed for Riley."

She struggled mindlessly now, heart pounding, eyes glazed and blank of all but stark, unreasoning fear, and Spike snarled with heat and roiling need and jagged, pounding excitement and tore her skirt off her, ripping her panties aside as he fell on her and shoved her legs apart and thrust deep and hard and so perfectly, deliciously tight.

Willow screamed behind the gag, sobbing, each tormented sound he forced from her hotly exhilarating, every frantic movement of the soft, trembling body stoking him until he nearly wailed with the fury and the violence of his hunger. It boiled up biting and searing and he couldn't stop--couldn't wait--driving wildly into scorching depths as violent, explosive release rose up and crashed down howling over him.

_Too soon, over far too soon, _so he lay on her, squeezing harshly at her breasts and tearing lightly, indulgently, at her neck, sucking on the small wounds, reveling in her whimpers and Taras' mewling cries while he grew hard again. He rode Willow long and brutal the second time, until she was long past struggling, long past sense or reasoning in her eyes. Until she was nothing beneath him but a silent, broken shell.

Perfect--_perfect_--climax ripping through his very being then, the last of his bitter frustration seared away in an ecstasy of demonic satiation.

He took his time crawling off her, a last few bruising caresses, another long suckle at the gashes at her breast, indulging himself as he had not since he'd come to this miserable city. Taras was incoherent with need by the time he stood and stretched and righted his clothes, but he held her back with easy, brutal strength, crooning and soothing until she understood she had to go _slow_, or Willow would be empty and dead all too soon and Taras still unsatisfied. Besides--if there was even one last scrap of sane, conscious thought in that red-haired head, he wanted Willow to _know_ her _beloved Tara_ was the one killing her.

Spike pulled his jacket on and flicked the light switch, finally throwing the room into darkness, then yanked the drapes aside to let moonlight silver the two sleek, soft, bloody figures on the bed. He wished he could wait for Taras to finish, wished that _hadn't_ been his last pack, and grinned wickedly when his questing fingers found a forgotten cigarette deep in his pocket.

He lit it, inhaling the bitter smoke, listening to soft, slow sucking, watching the clear sky and the high, shining moon and savoring the intense satisfaction singing in his dead heart.

"One last thing to do," he murmured, not caring if Taras heard him. She knew the plan and the deadline--and that Vlad would torture her for a thousand years if she made any more mistakes. Spike pulled the window up and slipped out, dropping easily to the ground and walking silently away.

He was done here.

_The crypts beneath Mircean Towers_

_Center City Sunnydale_

_The same night_

Anya threw her head back and screamed, power searing through her, blazing and shimmering and so beautifully, perfectly savage. It blinded her, deafened her, sent her staggering back from the altar, but she held on, excruciating heat tearing through her and penetrating the amulet she clenched in her right hand, incinerating the ritual paper she clutched in her left, growing and building until there was nothing--ever, anywhere--but flames and power and writhing heat.

The endless moment _snapped_, sudden, breathtaking silence and darkness and shattering weakness hurling her to her knees and her tightly clenched fists. The stone was cool against her burnt hands and she sobbed, once, her harsh breaths echoing in the chamber as power ricocheted and roiled within her and slowly, slowly settled.

_Power. Everywhere._ Filling her lungs, seeping into her muscles, dancing along her skin. Infusing her every thought and breath and immortal heartbeat. _Hers._All that glorious power, _all hers. Everything she could ever want, all once more within her grasp._

"Are you all right, Anyanka?" Luka quietly asked, and Anya laughed hoarsely.

"I prefer 'Anya.'"

His hands were strong and insistent at her elbows, and Anya let him help her to her feet. "I didn't think you would want any reminders of that time of weakness," he commented, steadying her.

Anya took a deep breath and slowly raised eyes that once more, she knew, glittered with obvious power. "My name is not a reminder of_that_," she said softly. "For over a thousand years Anyanka served others. But I was _Anya_ when I learned to stand up for myself. That's something I don't ever want to forget."

"It is a great accomplishment," he remarked, "to see oneself so clearly."

Anya blinked away the power still lingering in her vision. And blinked again. "It helps to see the people around you, too. How did I not notice you're a _vampire_?"

A smug smile grew lazily on his handsome face. "Another simple spell, to hide my true nature until you were ready to know."

"Is there anything else you want to tell me, Luka?" she frowned.

Luka laughed. "I was wrong, Anya--you are much, much more than I was told."

"Just exactly who's been doing all this talking about me?"

"My apologies," a smooth, ageless voice interrupted, and Anya turned as a tall, slim figure stalked through the shadowed arch and entered the chamber. "But you were neither this strong nor this determined when last we met."

_"Dracula?"_ she gasped, staring, frozen.

The Count smiled, even more enigmatically than Luka ever had, and Anya's sluggish brain kicked over.

"Who did Buffy kill?"

"A servant," the Count shrugged, watching her closely with those dark, bottomless eyes, and suddenly her mind was racing.

"If the Slayer thinks you're dead," she said softly, "then you can come and go as you please. But you couldn't have come to Sunnydale just to restore _me_--whatever the boon is. Because it's _you_ I owe for this, isn't it?"

He nodded, waiting, eyes locked on hers, and Anya fought the sudden urge to fall to her knees before the power burning deep in his gaze. But she'd learned a great deal about herself in the last few days. He was Dracula, and she owed him, but she wasn't kneeling to any_one_ or any_thing_ ever again. Anya tightened her jaw and forced her chin a notch higher.

"I don't know why you're here, and I don't know what you want. But I owe you a boon, Vlad Dracula," she acknowledged gravely. "Name it, and I'll do everything in my power to grant it. But understand two things: one, if you don't tell me all the circumstances, I may not be able to give you _exactly_ what you demand."

"And the other?" he prompted her.

"My powers always worked best for women, and especially well for women who'd been scorned."

Again the moment stretched, thick and heavy with his silent appraisal.

"Tell me," the Count murmured, but the words echoed loudly in her ears, and now his eyes bored hard and sharp into her. "Do your loyalties still lie with the Slayer?"

Anya allowed his spell to wash through her, let it weigh her sudden, shattering anger and shape her words so he would _know_ she spoke the truth. "I _never_ pledged her my loyalty!" she spat. "The Slayer and the Watcher _destroyed my amulet_. They owe _me_ for the last year and a half. Not that they'll ever admit it," she finished darkly.

"And if fulfilling my boon will work against them?" he pressed. "If it will make you their enemy?"

"I was never their _ally_ to begin with," Anya bitterly insisted. "They sheltered me out of guilt and pity, and I let them because I had nowhere else to go." Slowly she shook her head. "I was careless last time--I won't do anything that would ever give _anyone_ the opportunity to take my power from me again--but I _will_ live up to the promise I made Luka, even if it makes the Slayer my enemy."

The spell's hold eased, then disappeared, and once more the Count nodded. She'd passed his test. Anya braced herself and took a deep breath. _Here it comes._

But all he did was hold out his hand to her, and all he said was, "Come."

Come? Where? To do what? What could she possibly give _Dracula_ that he couldn't get for himself? It had to be something huge. Her breath skittered shakily out. By Avarra_--what if she couldn't do what he asked?_

But then the Count smiled, and power roiled in her gut and filled her with strength, and Anya clenched her fists around the pain still pounding in her hands and surged recklessly down from the alter. She'd never been afraid before--she would_ not_ be afraid again. She uncurled her left hand and gripped the Count's hand hard and allowed him to lead her from the chamber.

The passage was twisting and dark, the stone smooth and wet, but it wasn't long before the Count paused at another arched entrance and motioned for her to enter. Anya stepped defiantly into another chamber, lit even more brightly than the other. And froze.

_Giles._

Magic cloaked him, held him senseless as he sat slumped, shirt ripped and dangling, on the stone bench in the center of the room. Eyes glazed and empty, mouth hanging slackly, he was completely unresponsive to the dark-haired woman--to the _vampire_--who was draped over him, her talon-like fingernails leaving dainty lines of blood everywhere she scored his skin.

Anya released the startled breath she'd drawn. Giles was no threat in_that_ condition. "What a busy night for you, Count," she managed. "Is that where you got my new amulet--from _Giles'_ collection?"

"Hmm," he murmured noncommittally. "A rather impressive collection, I believe. Even for a Watcher."

Something in his voice made Anya turn to stare at the Count. "Tara and Willow spent all summer cataloguing those things. They even dragged me into it."

"I know. Enough, Drusilla," the Count softly admonished.

He knew? _Drusilla?_ Anya stared. "_The_ Drusilla?" she breathed.

Drusilla preened, nails leaving a last criss-cross of welts across Giles' chest as she straightened. "Have we met?" she giggled.

"No," Anya shook her head. "But who hasn't heard of _you_?"

Drusilla laughed and clapped delightedly and danced around the bench and into the Count's arms. "Is it time?" she gushed. "Can we make our wish now?"

Anya stiffened. The wish was to be named by Drusilla? But the only man who'd ever been stupid enough to scorn Drusilla…

"He gave me up," Drusilla growled, head whipping around to Anya, not waiting for the Count's approval. "Daddy left me when the witch restored his soul, so take that ugly thing away from him and _give me back my Daddy. I wish for Angelus._"

"Count?" Anya stammered, jerking her eyes to his. "_This_ is your boon? You restored me for _this_?"

Glittering eyes raked over her. "I did not offer you any conditions or terms," he threatened, low and silky. "One boon, _this_,_now_. You have no choice."

"What kind of a game is this?" Anya snapped, fury straightening her spine. "Give me back my power just to rip it from me two minutes later when I can't stand up to my end of the deal? Precisely_what_in all six hundred sixty-six hells made you think a vengeance demon would be powerful enough to break _the Romany curse_?"

Dark eyes narrowed and the Count thrust Drusilla from him to roughly grasp Anya's right wrist. "Do you have any idea what I've done for you?" he snarled. _"Look at your hand."_

Anya yanked her arm free, the pain of the burns spiking at his touch, but she fought through it and pried her aching fingers open.

And the amulet disintegrated, crumbling into dust.

"No," she whispered, vision darkening, stomach plummeting, sanity teetering on a knife's edge. The new amulet was gone. Her new trigger was_nothing but dust._

No amulet, no trigger, _no power._ Her soul shattered and she sucked in her breath to howl.

And Luka reached around her and brushed off her hand.

Power_ignited_, blazing along the lines seared into her palm, her fingers, everywhere she'd gripped the oddly ridged ornament. Crimson flames, dancing across her hand, reaching fiery tendrils deep into her and giving her access to her power, every last dram of it, any time, all the time, with nothing more than a thought--and abruptly Anya saw the pattern scored into her hand.

She jerked her head up and stared at the Count in mind-numbing shock.

_"Yes,"_ he hissed. "The ritual burned the mark of the Urukite into your flesh. Making trigger _and focus_ a part of you."

Dark, feral joy ripped savagely through her. The mark of the Urukite--a more powerful focus than ever before--more power than she'd ever dreamed, all hers, _all hers_--and_no one would ever be able to take it from her_.

"_The boon_, Anyanka," Dracula snarled. "_Now._"

"First you must tell me," she demanded, power arcing through her voice, glittering in her eyes, burning in her skin. "_Why?_ Why do you need Angelus?"

The Count's eyes flicked to Luka's.

"She will not betray you, my prince," Luka said firmly.

For a long moment the silence was total, nothing but the pulsing, soaring sound of her power echoing harshly in her ears as the Count stared at Luka. Finally, slowly, he shifted his gaze to hers.

"You were correct, Anya. I arranged for the Slayer to think me dead," the Count said softly. He waved in Giles' direction. "When I leave Sunnydale I will take with me her Watcher, and two of the amulets from his collection will be missing. The Urukite amulet and one other. I require time to complete the rest of my plans, so I need to force her eyes elsewhere when she seeks them. But even with that protection, success is not guaranteed. Even now, this very moment, the Slayer hunts--she _knows_ that something threatens. I've set a number of things in motion tonight that will hurt her, distract her, and you and your skills are a significant part of that. Because _nothing_ will hurt or distract the Slayer so thoroughly as Angelus."

Anya arched an insolent eyebrow. "Why don't you just kill her?"

"What makes you think I won't?" he growled, voice thick with vicious promise.

Anya laughed, low and throaty and echoing with power. All she'd wanted was a new start. But to be handed the opportunity to strike back at Buffy and Giles--to be the one to restore Angelus? "I was right, Luka," she chuckled softly, "you _are_too good to be true. But this is one price I'll be happy to pay. _Done._"

Anya reached out and pressed her hand and the mark of the Urukite into Drusilla's chest and invoked the spell. Her true face burst from her with the power she gathered, rising up in a howling fury, but she knew this beast and all its secrets. The knowledge of more than a thousand years roared to life within her and with stinging blows she beat the power into the shape she demanded, binding it with all the pain and the anguish and the madness that lay at the heart of Drusilla's wish.

Now:_focus_. Angel--the shining light that was his soul-- Angel!

_There._

She hurled the beast with vicious strength and brutal accuracy, sinking its claws into that glowing orb and tearing, shredding--_scrabbling to hold on_. The light _blasted_ and seared and still she clung, tightening her grip, ripping the soul thread by thread from its anchor. Reality _twisted_ and _wrenched_, stretching her will and her strength and her stubborn, furious grip thinner and thinner until scorching pain erupted in her mind and lanced through her hands and roared and howled and she screamed, blinded, deafened, her hands clenched in immeasurable agony, falling as blackness crashed and shattered until there was nothing--ever, anywhere--but ashes and icy darkness and cold, empty silence.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

_The dorms, Sunnydale University_

_Approaching dawn_

Xander pulled his jacket more closely around him as he trudged up the walk to Willow's dorm, but it didn't help. He was beginning to wonder if he'd ever feel warm again.

He'd really hurt Anya. And now she was gone.

He'd searched everywhere, all night, even checking places he'd never normally dream of going by himself. But all he'd been able to come up with was a bag of clothes she'd obviously stashed at the Magic Box.

Xander pulled the door open, sighing heavily as he started up the stairs. How had he not seen this coming--not noticed the anger and the hurt building in her? _All his fault._ So wrapped up in his own problems--in finally _fixing_ them--that he'd never truly considered Anya and _her_ feelings.

_Face it, pal,_ he thought bitterly. _You never put her first. Nobody did._ Except _he_ had been her boyfriend--the one person she should have been able to count on.

Xander sighed and knocked heavily on Willow and Tara's door. He needed help on this one. _Another winner, Harris. Good job!_ So damned brilliant that he'd lost Cordy, and now driven Anya away as well. Thank goodness he'd never lose Willow. She would always--

"Who is it?" The voice was low, and sort of sleepy, and Xander winced.

"Tara? It's me, Xander." He leaned in closer to the door. "I know it's late--or really early, I guess--but I need to talk to Willow. And you. Please? It's really important."

"Sure. Come in, Xander."

Xander sighed in relief and reached for the doorknob. "Thanks, Tara, I--"

The smell hit him first as he opened the door, blood and sex and fear, and he froze and let go of the doorknob. But the door swung in and then he saw her, sprawled naked and bruised and torn across the bed, blood everywhere, and heart pounding he forced his eyes past the ravaged neck and the swollen lips to the bruised face and then he was lunging for the bed.

_"Willow!"_

_Dear God, she was white as don'tsayitdon'tthinkit, breath shallow and uneven and_--

The door slammed shut behind him and Xander whirled.

"She wasn't much fun," Tara pouted, licking her lips, "and I'm still _very_hungry." And then she _turned,_ her delicate features morphing into the demonic face he despised, and leaped at him.

Unthinking he ducked and caught her on his back, hours of practice on the mats with Mickey rolling his shoulder and lifting to heave her across the room. She crashed into the dresser, howling with fury as she fell, spitting her anger as she jumped to her feet. Breath harsh in his throat, heart pounding in his ears, Xander stepped into the demon's charge and clenched his fists, timing the uppercut left and swinging right, sending her staggering back just long enough for him to reach, grab, yank the splintered piece of dresser drawer. He whirled and stabbed in hard at the heart and she was gone and he was staggering himself into howling, dusty air.

For a heartbeat he stared as the ashes fluttered to the floor. Then Xander dropped the makeshift stake and grabbed a blanket.

Later--he'd think of that later, of Tara and what he'd done and-- _Later._

Xander wrapped his best friend in the blanket, lifted her gently in his arms, and ran.

_Sunnydale General Hospital_

_Just past dawn_

Buffy ran straight through the Emergency Room doors, shoving them back so hard they cracked into the walls. Everyone stared and people turned to her angrily and she ignored them all, pushing her way through the wall of noise and the crush of people. But Xander wasn't there.

She caught the name Harris in the midst of the din and turned. Police, talking to one of Riley's fraternity brothers. Buffy frowned, instinct pulling her out of their sight, Slayer hearing finally picking up the astonishing information that _Xander_ was wanted for questioning about what had happened at the fraternity house. Buffy shook the absurdity off and turned back to look for him again, glancing aside as the men's room door opened.

Xander shuffled out, exhausted, oblivious, jacket darkly stained, and Buffy swept past and stared him into silence and led him swiftly out of the hospital.

Xander caught up then and grabbed her hand and the numbness that had gripped her since she'd learned the night's awful news shattered. Nausea churned in her stomach and anger and horror and stunned helplessness tightened her chest and Buffy breathed carefully as she followed Xander to his car, squeezing his hand while they huddled in the front seat and tried to stop shaking.

"She's alive," Xander finally managed. "I guess I interrupted before… before Tara could… finish." He swallowed hard. "It was bad, Buffy."

Wordlessly she nodded, mind skittering away from images she wasn't even ready to think about, much less talk about. "I was patrolling all night," she said instead, "and wound up at Mom's. She told me you'd called. You did good, Xander."

Xander shuddered and turned his ashen face to the window. "Buffy, there's more. I saw it on CNN in the waiting room. Riley--"

"I know," she said tautly. "One of his fraternity brothers tried to find me at home--Mom told me that, too. Riley's in surgery. They were afraid to transport him, so they flew a team of specialists in. They don't… They don't know if he'll walk again."

Buffy sucked in her breath, held it while the fear and the fury and the desperation roiled in her belly. There was nothing she could do to help them--_nothing_--not for Willow, not for Riley, not for Tara. She'd failed them all. _But she didn't have time to _feel_ like this!_ Ruthlessly she tried to push the emotions away again. "Tell me," she demanded roughly. "About you, about last night. From the beginning."

Xander started with the gym and the argument with Anya the night of the Dracula fest and went straight through to bringing Willow in and Buffy's mind raced, sifting through everything she'd felt for the last couple of weeks and everything she'd dreamed and especially everything Xander told her.

It all hurt--everything hurt--even Anya's leaving Xander hurt. The wall she'd tried to build inside her crumbled all over again. Tara turned--Tara _dusted_--Riley critically injured--Willow… _Dear God, Willow brutalized.__How could she even breathe, much less function as the Slayer?_ She needed help. Hands shaking, Buffy pulled out the cell phone her mom had sent with her and fumbled through dialing Giles' number.

Xander turned. "Who are you calling?"

"Giles."

They stared at each other, eyes locked as the phone rang and rang and rang.

"Maybe he's on the way here?"

Slowly Buffy shook her head and disconnected the call. "Mom tried to get me at his place and he never answered. He doesn't know about any of this. He should be at home, waiting for all of us. I guess he didn't get a hold of you last night. We were supposed to…"

Her breath caught. They were all supposed to meet--to plan, to search--

_It's not normal quiet, it's something's coming quiet. The audience is screaming, Giles, and any second now something is going to jump out at me._

"What, Buffy?" Xander prompted sharply. "We were supposed to what?"

"Nothing jumped out at _me_," she gasped, staring unseeing past him. "It jumped out at all of_you_. But they always come at me--I'm the Slayer, damn it, and _they should always__come at me_."

She was shouting, fury roaring through her, crystal clear and viciously cold, scouring away the pain and the fear and echoing harshly in the stunned silence in the car.

"Buffy?" Xander whispered. "What the hell is going on?"

"Somebody's been busy," she snarled, hands steady now as she dialed again. "And we need reinforcements."

_"Angel Investigations."_

"Wesley? I need Angel."

_"What happened, Buffy?"_

"Just get him on the phone," she snapped.

_"I can't,"_ he snapped back. _"Someone very powerful attacked him magically and very nearly ripped his soul away. The feedback when the spell failed was like a bomb going off in here. Angel's out cold."_

Buffy closed her eyes, made herself take a deep breath, made herself focus._She was the Slayer. She had work to do._

"Wesley," she said carefully, tonelessly, "get Angel wrapped up and into a car and get back to Sunnydale. All of you. As quickly as you can, with as many weapons as you can carry. _And be careful._ Giles and Anya are missing, Tara is dead, Riley was nearly beaten to death, and Willow was assaulted by a vamp."

_"God in heaven,"_ he whispered brokenly. _"Buffy--"_

"I spoke to Giles last night around midnight," Buffy crisply continued. "But we can't reach him this morning. I'm sending Xander to look for him. Anya probably just took off, but with everything else going on I'm not taking anything for granted. Somehow Tara got vamped--she's the one who nearly sucked Willow dry before Xander dusted her. I don't know who attacked Riley, but he's in surgery. He should make it, but it could be without walking. Willow's in the ER now, probably getting a transfusion. That's all I've got."

Wesley cleared his throat. _"We're on the way. Where shall we meet you?"_

"The hospital," Buffy decided. "Sunnydale General. One of us should be back by then to keep an eye on Willow and Riley."

_"Buffy, if someone's targeting your inner circle, then what about your mother? Is she safe?"_

"Safe as she can be. Willow and Tara warded the house against everything short of a nuke after that little visit by Dracula, so--"

_"Dracula? Did you say--Dracula?!"_

Buffy sighed. "He's about the only thing I'm sure _didn't_ attack us last night. But I'll tell you everything when you get here, Wesley."

_"Right. See you shortly."_

They disconnected, and Buffy reached back into memory for the number and dialed again.

"Now who?" Xander asked.

_"Hello?"_

"Oz," Buffy said softly. She couldn't bring herself to say anything else, but her silence told him enough.

_"Two hours," _Oz finally said. _"Where?"_

"Sunnydale General."

The call went dead, and slowly Buffy closed and pocketed the phone. This time the silence was filled with the questions Xander wasn't asking.

"Oz called and gave me his number when he got settled. Just in case."

Xander swiped at the tears running silently down his cheeks. "She'll need him."

Buffy took his hand again. "And I need you to focus, Xander. Angel, Oz--they're on the way. I want you to look for Giles in the meantime. Check his house, the Magic Box, any place you can think of. And try to avoid the police. That's a complication we don't need."

"What?"

"Just go, Xander."

He nodded, trusting, squeezed her hand hard, and then reached for the key dangling in the ignition. "Where will you be?"

"Checking the Hellmouth," she grimly replied. "If somebody wanted me hurting so bad I couldn't function, then I'm guessing they had to be after something here in Sunnydale. Even closed, the Hellmouth is the single, most unique thing in this town, so I'm starting there."

She reached for the door, but Xander grabbed her arm. "_You're_ unique, Buffy. What if they started with us, but are really after you?"

"Then I'll make sure they spend eternity in the hell of my choice," she snarled. Buffy pushed the car door open, lunged out of the suddenly confining space, and started running.

_I'll make you regret this,_ she swore, _whoever you are. You should have come at me._

_The Penthouse, Mircean Towers_

_Center city Sunnydale_

_That morning_

Thickly upholstered panels now covered the long glass walls, guarding against the burning sunlight and leaving long, heavy fingers of deepest shadow in command of the chamber instead. From the cool, dark depths of his chair by the fire Vlad contemplated the bespelled mortal sitting docilely on a stool before him in the small circle of flickering firelight. Vacant eyes reflecting the flames, welts sullenly marking the bloodstained torso, hands hanging limply. So much for the renowned Watcher Rupert Giles. A formidable mind, for a mortal, and a surprizing potential for magic use, but still much less of a challenge to subdue than Vlad had expected. He considered his next question, but abandoned the interrogation as Luka quietly entered the room.

"My prince," Luka bowed. "All is prepared, and I've notified the pilot to expect us within the hour. Anya has not yet awakened, but she appears to be resting comfortably. I've had Roald take her down to the cars."

Vlad glanced at the mantel clock, frowning, and Luka answered the unspoken question. "Neither William nor Taras has returned."

"A child for Spike and a spike for the child," Drusilla crooned, pushing away from the row of burgundy panels. Slowly she crossed the room, fingers trailing along the table's edge, prescient gaze focused on the fire. "My Spike is coming," she added absently.

"And Taras?" Vlad prompted curiously.

"Spiked," Drusilla dreamily, sadly repeated. She sank into the chair opposite him, singing softly, returned to her own little world.

So Taras was, after all, entirely lost to him. That explained the witch's survival. No matter. With a flick of his hand Vlad caught his steward's eye. "Have the Watcher cleaned up and prepared to travel, then taken down to the cars," he ordered. "And bring me the documents for William."

Luka nodded and stood aside, waiting. With meticulous control Vlad wrapped his will once more around the Watcher's. "You've done very well, Rupert. Now rise and go with Luka, and do as he says," he said softly, insinuating the words deep into Giles' mind.

Obediently Giles stood, turned, and slowly followed his steward from the chamber. Vlad smiled. A pity the man would die during the ritual. He'd have to continue the questioning and get as much as possible from him before then.

But there were three full days until the next new moon--plenty of time. Excellent. Vlad stood and crossed the room to the table and the small, richly carved box that rested there, protecting his other acquisition on this little trip. Carefully Vlad opened the lid. The jewel and silver chain glittered dully, colorlessly, nearly lost in the dim light. Almost as if the amulet had been in the Watchers' care for too long and was now trying to hide from him.

"Doesn't look like much, does it?" William sniffed, and Vlad turned to find the obviously well-satisfied vampire leaning in the doorway.

Crowing with excited triumph, Drusilla leaped up. "I knew you were coming," she giggled.

"William," Vlad nodded. "Congratulations. My sources tell me Mr. Finn is unlikely to walk again, although sadly, Miss Rosenberg has survived the night--barely."

William stiffened. "Where the bloody hell is Taras?"

"Spiked," Drusilla murmured again, playfully pressing herself up against William. He shoved her away and paced restlessly into the room.

"I should have known Tara would screw things up as a vampire," William growled. "She was nothing but useless as a human. It doesn't matter, does it?"

"Not at all," Vlad reassured him. Luka paused in the doorway, the documents in his hand. Vlad waved him in and took the leather binder.

Drusilla approached William more slowly this time as Luka once more departed. "Daddy's not coming home," she pouted softly.

"I'm crushed," William sneered. "Vlad?"

"Anya was not able to loose Angelus," Vlad acknowledged. "But Angel is surely as incapacitated as she for the moment. Another blow to the Slayer."

"I don't know," William cautioned. "I told you Buffy's better than anything you've ever seen before. Damned annoying and bloody frustrating, the way she always manages to come out on top. Are you sure we've done enough?"

Vlad waved dismissively. "I have Giles and the amulet. I wanted the Slayer's inner circle obliterated, but merely shattered will do. She still has no guidance or support, no clues to my purpose, and her attention has been turned sufficiently far from me, from the vampire she believes dead for nearly a month, that she can not possibly interfere."

"Don't say I didn't warn you," William insisted, shaking his head.

"You've been too close to the Slayer for too long," Vlad scoffed. "Bound by the same misguided notion that only _Sunnydale_ is important, only this Hellmouth, only this insignificant assembly of demons. An _entire world_ awaits you, William--a world of torment and suffering and unchecked evil, to be ripped and mutilated and shaped in our image. But only if you have the strength to take it."

"Can the pep talk, Vlad," William mocked. "You know why I stayed. Unless you want me to throw someone else through the window, I'm not in the mood to prove myself to you again."

"Very well," Vlad replied, nodding approvingly. He offered the binder to William. "Then I believe only one matter remains."

William eyed the binder curiously, but he didn't take it. "What's this?"

"In the future, William, don't make me repeat myself. I already told you I reward my allies well."

Wordlessly William accepted the binder and opened it, swiftly perusing the documents and rifling through the various currencies neatly bundled in the envelope. For a long moment he stared unseeing into shadows, considering, until finally he looked up. "_Very_ generous," he softly acknowledged. Then he tossed the binder and all its contents to the table. "But I'm through owing anyone for anything--and if I take this, I'll owe you. Willow was my reward," he continued, lips curling and eyes glittering in vicious satisfaction. "And Riley, and Tara, and knowing the Slayer will remember this night and regret not killing me for the rest of her life."

"On the contrary, William. I chose a reward completely appropriate for your invaluable assistance." Vlad turned back to the table, ignoring the binder to instead close the box and tuck it precisely into the briefcase next to it. "The estate is yours, without anything further owed. The servants there have already been notified and await your arrival. Take it. Or not. In three days, none of my estates will matter to me anyway. Incidentally," he added, latching the briefcase and stepping back, "that particular property would have been Taras' inheritance."

William's smile was positively evil. "Well all right then," he snickered, scooping up the binder. "I'd be happy to take it off your hands. Mind if I check it out and join you later? You can just drop me off in London."

"Fine. Luka?" Vlad called out.

As ever, his steward responded immediately, stepping into the room and waiting expectantly.

"Bring the briefcase. We're leaving."

"Good-bye, Sunnydale," William muttered. "Bloody good riddance."

"My Spike," Drusilla sighed happily, reaching for him.

Spike slapped her hands away. "Push off, Dru. Shouldn't you be on your way back to South America?"

"Children," Vlad warned, straightening his cuffs and heading for the hall, a cocky William and a pouting Drusilla in tow.

Behind them the flames hissed as Luka doused the fire, darkness now consuming the room.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

_Sunnydale General Hospital_

_Later that morning_

Buffy stepped into the elevator and silently swiped at the two.

Swollen, bandaged, bruised, tubes draped all over him, cold metal holding his broken body still, monitors blinking and clicking and beeping. Not even seeing Willow in her hospital bed had prepared her. Nothing about the pale figure had looked familiar from the other side of the intensive care glass. Nothing at all. Except she knew in her gut that was Riley on the bed.

The elevator jolted a little, the doors pinging open, and automatically Buffy stepped back. Sneakers intruded on her view of the floor, a pristine pair of white women's sneakers that stood still, a muddy, worn pair of children's that didn't. Buffy stared at a torn lace as it danced with the constant motion of one small foot.

She couldn't remember ever being that small. That young. That innocent. There were pictures, she knew. And her mother's stories. And the facts, somewhere in her head. But life before she'd become the Slayer seemed… distant. Colorless. Hazy, and indistinct. Buffy wondered when exactly that had happened.

Another jolt, another ping, more feet. White nurses' shoes, joining the crowd on the elevator floor.

Funny, how she couldn't remember much of her eleventh birthday, but every moment of those dreams was scored sharp and clear into her memory. The heat, the lust, the pain and the blistering need. The dark, jagged submission. And the last few long days and longer nights, filled with hours of endless, uneasy patrol. She remembered it all, every moment.

Including every last word of that miserable conversation with Riley.

_"Are you going to tell me what's wrong now, or are we going to pretend for_another_ night that I haven't noticed how you don't want me to touch you?"_

Buffy closed her eyes. He'd been mere inches away, and she hadn't reached across that insignificant distance and touched him when she'd had the chance. Why hadn't she touched him? Why hadn't she reassured him? She'd even pushed Willow away, for nothing more important than a _nap_. Thinking tomorrow--or the next day--she'd make it up to her. Damn it, she was the Slayer. She knew better than most not to make too many assumptions about the future. Now Willow lay unconscious in one part of the hospital, while Riley lay motionless on the other side of thick, cold glass in another, and she couldn't reach either one of them. _Why hadn't she touched them when she'd had the chance?_

And what about Tara? When had the unthinkable happened to Tara? How, where, why? _What had she missed_, that Tara had been turned--that Tara had nearly killed Willow--that Tara had let someone… Buffy ran a shaking hand through her hair. How was she going to deal with what had happened to both of them? She didn't know where Willow's parents were--didn't even know if Tara had family to notify. How long had Tara been a part of their lives, and she didn't even know if there was family! Why didn't she know? So little time, so many demands on her, and there was school and…

No. Those were excuses.

She'd stopped letting people get close to her because it would hurt less when--if--they left. Or got killed.

She'd spent even less time with Anya. Xander was walking around in a daze of exhausted worry over his missing girlfriend, and Buffy didn't have the faintest idea where to begin looking for her. Where did Anya hang out when she wasn't with them? Where did she shop, where did she eat, what on earth did she _do_? Buffy kicked the wall behind her. She'd never bothered to get to know Anya before, and now it might be too late. So many missed opportunities.

_Damn it, where the hell was Giles?_

Stillness opened her eyes, and silence, and Buffy realized the elevator was standing empty of all but her, doors open to the main lobby. She'd missed Willow's floor. Wearily Buffy reached for the two again, then recognition slammed home in her and she held down the Doors Open button instead.

"I couldn't find Giles anywhere," Xander said softly, nodding at Oz as the two stood framed in the opening. "But I did find this guy on my way in."

A fraction of her tightly wound tension uncoiled. Xander was back okay, and Oz had made it. Then Oz shifted, unnaturally stiff and graceless, fear flaring high in his eyes.

"She's stable," Buffy said quickly, motioning for them to join her. "They moved her up to a room an hour ago. Two forty-seven."

Twin sighs of relief, two sets of shoulders slumping. Buffy swallowed hard as Oz and Xander shuffled into the elevator. They weren't going to like the rest. She wasn't even sure she could _say_ the rest. Especially not to them.

The doors opened to the second floor and the guys moved purposefully, so familiar with the hospital that they already knew room 247 was to the right. Buffy grabbed them both and pulled them aside in the hallway.

Oz glanced impatiently at her and froze.

"I already told him everything," Xander gently informed her. Then he, too, got a good look at her. "What? There's _more_? Have you heard from Anya? Or Giles? _What?_"

"Anya and Giles are still MIA." Buffy took a long, careful breath. They had to know. And there were things to do, now that she wasn't the only one here. "You said Tara attacked Willow--that she said something like Willow hadn't been enough fun and she was still hungry."

Slowly Xander nodded.

"Did she say anything else, Xander? Did she mention anyone else?"

"That's everything," Xander frowned. "It wasn't a long conversation, Buff. She was covered in Willow's blood and she reeked of sex. And she had that brainless new vamp nothing-but-hungry look on her. She came at me and we fought and that was it."

"Except that wasn't it," Buffy managed, her stomach suddenly, viciously churning. "They wouldn't tell me anything, so I read Willow's chart. Tara couldn't have been the only one there. There had to be at least one other attacker. And he had to be male. Guys… Willow was raped."

The word hung in the stunned, disbelieving silence, but inside her--in them all, Buffy knew--it tore and bled and shattered.

Xander raised shaking hands to cover his face, muffling an already soft, broken, "Oh, my God."

"Who?" Oz bristled menacingly, a low growl rumbling deep in his chest.

Buffy brushed hot, silent tears away and shook her head. "My guess is there's a new vamp in town--one of Riley's fraternity brothers had his neck ripped out and died because of massive blood loss, and obviously somebody got to Tara. I think he was still with her when Tara went after Willow. But whether Tara staked him for his trouble or he was gone by the time Xander got there, I don't know."

"God, Buffy," Xander whispered. "This is a nightmare. What do we do now? What _the hell_ do we do now?"

"We stay focused," Buffy said flatly, "which means we've got to figure out who the mystery vamp behind door number one is, where he's hiding, and what he's up to. Oz, you're on guard duty here at the hospital. Riley should be okay for a while--nothing gets past those watch dog nurses in intensive care--so stay with Willow. Xander, you're with me. We're going back to Willow and Tara's dorm room."

"The police have probably already been there," Oz pointed out.

Buffy shrugged. "Nothing against Sunnydale's finest, but you know as well as I do they don't have a clue about what really goes on around here. And that room is the only place we've got left to look. The Hellmouth was its usual dark and dusty dead end, and I've been patrolling for weeks without a sign of anything lurking anywhere. Giles came up empty, too, with research and all his contacts. If you've got a better idea, let's hear it."

"Buffy," Xander shook his head, his face white, "I'm not sure I can go back in there. Not now that--"

"I know." Buffy took his hand. "I don't want to go, either. But maybe we can handle it together. Oz?"

He nodded, and Buffy rattled off her mom's cell phone number. "Angel is on his way here. If I'm not back by the time he shows up, call me."

"Be careful," Oz softly acknowledged. He stalked off, small and quiet and so deceptively unassuming, and Buffy knew she didn't have to worry about Willow's safety anymore. The relief of that simple fact staggered her.

"I should have asked him to stay," she whispered. "Before, I mean."

Wordlessly Xander squeezed her hand. But there was nothing to say to that, and Buffy knew it. She didn't have the time to wallow in "what if's" about Oz any more than anyone or anything else. Not even Riley, or Willow, or… But that didn't mean she wouldn't be carrying the weight of it all for the rest of her life.

She clenched her fist and forced the words out. "Let's go."

_Sunnydale General Hospital_

_That morning_

Willow stumbled through cold and heavy, dragging weariness, through sharply spoken words and bright lights and the harsh taste of metal and never-ending beeps and clicks and hums, and thought sadly that all she wanted was warmth and quiet and _sleep_.

She tried to shout, to plead for silence, but the weight of all the commotion pressed her down and drowned her out. There was no one there to hear anyway. She was alone. She knew that. All alone in the noise and the cold and the dizzying confusion.

She tried to reach out, for a blanket, to turn off the lights, but her hands didn't move. She couldn't break the suffocating fatigue that held her still.

So she drifted, and blundered through more words, more shrill sounds, and the desperate exhaustion she just couldn't shake.

Warmth crept into the tangle of sounds and sensations--into her cold fingers--so soft and gentle she almost missed it. The endless beeping became the alarm clock--Oz's alarm clock--he'd turn it off any second now, so they could sleep some more. Except they wouldn't sleep, she knew. She'd burrow into his warmth, and he'd kiss her awake, and they'd lie there and talk a little and give the day a sweet, lazy, loving start.

The alarm clock faded, and the voices melted into just one, and the one became Oz, and he was telling her it was time to wake up. Willow smiled and slowly forced her heavy eyes open.

Oz gazed lovingly down at her, like he always had before, like he'd been doing in…

"Oh," Willow sighed. "I'm dreaming again."

Silently he raised an eyebrow at her, and she would have reached up and touched his beloved face if she wasn't still so tired. "Come here," she whispered instead. "Want my kiss, like the other dreams."

His glance flickered away, his hand tightening on hers. "I don't want to hurt you."

He was holding her hand. Warmth blossomed in her, and a little bit of strength, and Willow turned her wrist and brushed her fingertips across his palm. "No more hurt," she reassured him. "Not here. Just Oz kisses."

"Willow," he said roughly, though the fingers that touched her hair were exquisitely gentle. "You're not dreaming."

"'Course I am," she murmured, arching a little into his caress.

He looked at her again then, and the anguish in his eyes pinned her to the bed and jolted her wide awake. "Not dreaming," she gasped. "Oz?"

"I'm here, Will," he soothed. "You're safe."

"Safe," Willow repeated dumbly. _But that wasn't right. Something wasn't right._ A wild, icy rush of aching fear swamped her, tightening her chest and shaking her, and now she gripped his hand hard, holding onto his troubled gaze like a last, desperate lifeline. But she couldn't stop the shaking. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't get her head above the waves of dark, cold, desperate fear--

The wave crested, broke, and memory crashed shattering over her.

_"Tara!"_

She jerked upright and grabbed at him, pain ripping through her chest, tearing harsh and hot at her neck. _"Tara's a vampire!"_ she cried. "I got back to the room and there she was but she wasn't really sick I could tell--"

"You're bleeding," Oz gasped, rising, but Willow scrabbled at his arms and clenched his shirt and couldn't, wouldn't let go, the words pouring franticly out of her.

"--and then she wouldn't come into the room until I invited her and I knew something was wrong and then she _turned_ on me and oh _God_ it wasn't Tara anymore and she said I had to be her first and it was just like she was any other stupid new vampire except she wasn't this was _Tara_ and I had to hit her and tie her up but Spike let her go and he said the chip was broken and it was all just a spell and I didn't really love her and he--he--"

_She couldn't go there._ Willow squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head and gulped great, shuddering mouthfuls of air. Her stomach heaved and the heat at her neck seeped down across her breast and she couldn't move, couldn't run, couldn't get out from under--

_"Oz!"_

"Right here, right here," he whispered, his hands cupping her face, strong and gentle all at once. "Look at me, Willow," he begged. "Look at me, breathe with me--come on, Willow. You can do this. Just open your eyes, _please_."

But she couldn't do it--she couldn't keep it back, couldn't keep those dark, hideous, hateful memories from slashing her soul to ribbons. _"He hurt me,"_ she wailed.

_"I'll kill him for it."_

Her eyes flew open at the horror and the fury and the searing, primal promise in his voice--and his eyes caught her, held her, full of the same horror, the same fury, the same promise--and most of all, endless, boundless love, all for her, shining through everything else, making a different promise of strength and support and need.

Suddenly, utterly exhausted again, Willow pulled him closer and leaned into him, closing her eyes and pressing her aching, tear streaked face into his neck. "Don't leave me," she whispered.

His arms came round her, and then Oz was sitting on the bed and tenderly cradling her to his chest. "I'm here, Willow," he breathed. "For always."

Fresh, hot tears welled up and spilled over. "It was just a spell," she murmured wretchedly. "I knew it the second he… the second he told me. She cast a spell so I would love her instead of you. Why would Tara cast a spell to make me love her?"

"Because you're amazing?"

That startled a small ghost of a laugh from her. "Right. If you were that powerful and could have anyone in the world, would you pick me?"

"Before_every_one else," he said simply. And that made her want to cry again.

"Willow?" a familiar voice softly intruded.

"Angel," she sighed, somehow not surprized he was there, but too tired to open her eyes and see.

"She'll be all right," Oz replied, "but we need to call the nurse--I think she tore open some stitches."

"I'll get her."

"Cordelia?" Willow murmured into Oz's neck.

"She'll be here again later," Oz soothed. "Go back to sleep, baby. I'll be here when you wake up."

_Promise?_ she tried to say, already drifting.

"Call Buffy," Oz tensely continued, his voice echoing from far away. "She needs to know you're here. Then I need you to go kill Spike."

The silence stretched, long and heavy. Willow tried to hold onto it, but fatigue was tugging her down again.

"Not a problem," Angel finally replied. "Want to come? Cordelia can stay with--"

"No," Oz interrupted. "I won't leave Willow. I promised."

There was more--more words--facts, decisions, arrangements--but none of that mattered. She'd heard the only thing she needed to hear.

_I won't leave Willow. I promised._

Willow took those words back with her into exhausted sleep.

_Spike's crypt_

_Sunnydale Memorial Gardens_

_That morning_

Xander clutched the jagged length of branch he'd sheared off and ran hard, following close on Buffy's heels as she darted around headstones and bushes and trees and headed straight for Spike's crypt.

_Spike._ His stomach rolled sickly, and Xander tightened his jaw. It didn't matter what happened to him today, as long as he saw that bastard exploding in a cloud of dust. _I should have killed him_, he swore silently, memories of that bloodied dorm room and Willow's pale, bruised body stark and vivid in his mind._ Even _I_could have killed him when that chip was working._

Buffy crashed into the door, kicking high and shattering the handle. She whirled and kicked again, knocking the door off its hinges, then shoved it aside and bolted down the stairs. Xander was two steps behind her. He wasn't in the mood to wait for Angel, either.

Buffy went right and Xander took left and moments later they met empty-handed at the rear of the crypt.

"Where is he?" Xander growled.

Buffy stared blankly at him, as if she'd forgotten he was the one with her. She shook her head, waving impatiently at him, and wordlessly they circled back. This time Xander took a longer look inside the open stone sepulcher. And this time he saw the pile of ashes.

"Buffy," he snapped, fury and frustration leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Xander nodded sharply at the sepulcher. "Somebody beat us to him."

Silently she eyed the remains, her face cold and closed, as distant as she'd been after she'd sent a restored Angel to hell. Xander winced. He hadn't _ever_ wanted things to get that bad again.

"Too convenient," she finally replied, flatly. "How do we know that's him?"

"We don't," Angel softly commented, and Xander turned--and stared. Angel he'd expected, long coat hanging off the broad shoulders, gloved hands clenched, face lost in the huge hood. But following Angel down the stone steps were a Cordelia and Wesley he'd never seen before. They looked… _mean_. Hard, capable--sharp and merciless as the weapons they carried. Xander glanced down at his own stake. Maybe he hadn't been the only one tired of getting tossed around.

"I should have killed him," Buffy said, disgust clogging her low, vicious words. "I was an idiot to let him live."

"Don't, Buffy," Angel gently chastised, shrugging his hood back. "I had a thousand chances over the years to kill him, and I didn't, either."

"We all knew what he was capable of if that chip ever stopped working," Xander darkly added, "but _none_of us took him seriously. This isn't your fault, Buff."

"_I'm the Slayer_," she snarled, fury and black, bitter pain breaking through that cold façade. "_I let Spike live._ What was I thinking? That he'd be so grateful he'd start worshiping at my feet? Instead my best friend gets _raped_ and another is _dead_and two more are _missing_. I knew something was coming--it was the only thing about those damned dreams that was clear--but I still let all of this happen." Buffy shoved violently at the sepulcher, stone grating on stone as she shifted it half a foot off its base.

"Buffy!" Wesley stepped in and grabbed her arm and Xander blinked in surprize at his stern, confident air of command. "Calm down," he quietly continued. "You of all people can't afford to be emotional right now--you know that. Now tell me about these dreams."

Buffy stared angrily up at him like she'd never seen him before. "Don't you dare try to take his place, Wesley," she snapped, yanking her arm from his grasp. "_Giles_ is still my Watcher."

"I know that," Wesley gently replied. "It took me a while to figure things out, but I know where I belong now, Buffy--and it's not with you." Weapons clattered as he tossed them onto a bench. "But Giles is missing, and if we're going to help, we've got to know everything. I just think it's time you filled us in. And start with Dracula. I can't believe he was in Sunnydale and you didn't tell us."

"Dracula?" Angel stiffened. "Vlad was here?"

"He was all smoke and mirrors," Buffy tiredly insisted, her anger suddenly gone. "He oozed right up to me one night and announced my seduction. We found him in the only castle in Sunnydale and I dusted him. End of story."

"You're kidding," Angel said flatly.

"Nope," Buffy shrugged. Grateful she'd left out the part about him, Xander stayed silent.

Slowly Angel shook his head. "Vlad Dracula would never approach the Slayer directly like that, Buffy. He's brutal, cunning, brilliant--and very, very careful. I don't know who you staked, but it wasn't Dracula. If he'd really come after you, you never…" He froze. "Son of a bitch."

"What?" Buffy snapped, edgy with renewed tension.

"You never would have seen him coming," Wesley softly finished. "Like you didn't see what happened last night coming. Restored or not, Spike has--or possibly _had_--neither the patience nor the guile for the kind of planning last night required. But Dracula would. Tell us the rest, Buffy. All of it."

Buffy thought carefully for a long minute, then launched into a terse recital of the events of the last few weeks. Xander scrubbed at his aching eyes, suddenly remembering he hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours. Only half listening now, he shuffled to the steps and sat down. Two minutes. He'd close his eyes for two minutes, and then he'd be able to get up again and be strong. The stake fell from his fingers.

"You okay?" a gentle voice interrupted.

Xander looked up, the sympathy in Cordelia's words, in her eyes, nearly sending him over the edge. "No," he whispered hoarsely, fighting to keep the tears at bay.

Her touch was light on his shoulder. "No one but the bad guys are to blame for this, Xander. You--"

"I found her," he blurted, tears scalding his cheeks anyway. "I found Willow. You didn't see her like-- I _had_ to kill Tara. I had no choice. How am I going to tell Willow _that_? 'Hey, Will, sorry I killed your girlfriend, but we're even because I pushed mine away and--'"

"Xander," Cordelia firmly interrupted. "Stop that. You don't--_oh_." She gasped and doubled over, staggering almost drunkenly away from him, body tense and vibrating with obvious pain.

"Cordelia?" He shot to his feet, but Wesley and Angel had already turned. They darted to her, supporting her as she spasmed in their arms. Xander couldn't tear his eyes away from her, from the agony ripping through her in that endless moment. He could only clench his fists and watch, helpless, until finally she sagged, limp and gasping, against Angel.

"Cordy?" Angel urgently prompted.

"Giles... I saw Giles. He's alive--and he's with Dracula. They're in a big castle, near the sea--at Arthur's chair."

"Arthur's_Seat_?" Wesley clarified. "In _Edinburgh_? Why did they take him there?"

"We have to get to Giles," she continued breathlessly, "or he'll die in the ritual."

"Ritual?" Wesley sharply repeated. "What ritual? Cordelia?"

And then Cordelia froze, eyes opening wide and horrified on something only she could see. Xander held his breath.

"Oh, my God," she shuddered. "They're going to open a new Hellmouth."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

_Charing Cross Road, London_

_Late afternoon the following day_

Xander pushed open the door of the small, unremarkable office building and walked in, Cordelia at his side. "This can't be right," he sighed, eyeing the cold, austere workspace. "No old guys with Watcher decoder rings and Sherlock Holmes hats--and no books. This can't be Headquarters without books, full of Latin and yellow paper and cute little demon portraits. Are you sure Wesley gave us the right address?"

"I'm sure," she replied. "And this is it." Eyes narrowed, she took a much longer look at the room than he had, then headed determinedly around the single desk and chair to the back corner of the room and its only other door.

She looked tired, and too pale. "You okay?"

Cordelia shrugged. "Who sleeps on planes? Ruins the hair." She tried the door, knocking loudly when she found it locked.

They waited a long, silent moment. Xander wondered how many bones he'd break if he tried to kick the door in. They didn't teach that at the gym. The silence stretched on, until he reached around Cordelia and pounded on the door again. They didn't have time for this.

"We don't have time for this," Cordelia breathed, when the door abruptly opened and a tall, slim brunette walked through.

"May I help--"

"It's about time," Cordelia interrupted. "We need to see the Council."

"I'm afraid there's no council here," the brunette blinked, closing the door behind her, but Completely Clueless didn't suit her. Xander stepped in her way when she would have tried to lead them away from the door.

"We're in the middle of your basic, Slayer-saves-the-world-again emergency, so now would be good," he insisted.

The brunette shrugged. "I am sorry, but you must have the wrong--"

"Did we mention the part about saving the world?" Cordelia backed her into the door, somehow managing to loom over the taller woman. "You work for the Council," she continued evenly. "We work with the Slayer. Guess who kicks more ass? Now open the door."

The brunette blinked again and tried one more time, but Cordelia had obviously had enough. She frisked the girl, pulled a set of keys out of her sweater pocket, and pushed her out of the way.

Xander grinned. "LA obviously agrees with you."

"Auditions," she shot wryly over her shoulder. "Once you've been through a few of those, slaying is almost easy."

Cordelia had found the right key. They followed the small, cramped hallway, took the small, cramped stairs up a flight, turned the corner, and there it was--the huge room with the tall ceilings and the tall windows and the tall shelves filled floor to ceiling, wall to wall, with books.

"This is more like it," Xander nodded. "Except I really thought they'd all have those hats." Regardless, this was obviously the Watchers Council: eight older, stodgy men scattered around the room, lots of pipes, lots of tweed, and a tea set on the low, center table.

The grey-haired man standing in the back corner hung up the phone he'd been holding. "The keys you took from Miss Falkes, please," he said quietly.

Cordelia lobbed them clattering onto the tea tray.

"Now," he continued sternly, "we have rules on this side of the Atlantic, and one does not simply barge into the Council. If you'll be so kind as to take yourselves out the same way you--"

"Looks like Buffy wins," Xander sighed.

"Color me _so_ surprized." Cordelia rolled her eyes. "Wesley never should have taken the bet."

Xander smiled at the room full of useless old men. "Buffy said you'd be a waste of time," he confided, "but Wesley thought if we were actually here, in full, technicolor glory, that you just might understand this is an All Hands to Battle Stations, Romulans Uncloaking Off the Port Bow, Red Alert."

"The only thing they could agree on," Cordelia added, "was that you should be warned."

Gray Hair harrumphed, the rest started muttering, and Cordelia pulled an envelope out of her purse and tossed it, too, at the tea set.

"Your receipt," she informed them. "For the private plane we chartered. I had them bill you. Or maybe you think you can stop Dracula all by yourselves when he opens a Hellmouth in Edinburgh. Last time I checked, that was on this side of the Atlantic--right, Xander?"

"Unless it got moved the last time somebody threatened to destroy the world," Xander cheerfully nodded.

That got their full attention and, for a moment, silence. Then as if some huge invisible flag had dropped they all started arguing at once. Xander looked at Cordelia, they both looked at their watches, and simultaneously they knocked twice on the nearest bookshelf, the short raps cutting through everything.

"Battle stations, Dracula, Red Alert," Xander reminded them. "We don't have a lot of time here."

"A Hellmouth in _Edinburgh_?" Grey Hair sputtered. "How reliable is your information?"

"I saw the ritual myself," Cordelia coolly replied. "The Powers That Be may be blue Wonder Twins, but the visions they've sent me have never been wrong."

Grey Hair raised a skeptical eyebrow. "A Hellmouth can't be opened by a simple ritual."

"How reliable is your information?" Cordelia calmly, confidently parroted.

A small, professor-type with a kinder face than Grey Hair stepped forward. "What did you see, Cordelia--it _is_ Cordelia Chase, is it not? And--you would be Xander Harris?"

They both stared at the little man, and Xander decided that anywhere else, he would probably like this guy. Except he _really_ didn't like the thought that the Council had abandoned them, but was still keeping an eye on them anyway--on _all_ of them.

"We're not here to help you fill up more Watchers' diaries," Cordelia finally replied, pointedly ignoring the Professor's attempt to confirm their names. "So crack open a book or two and spill. What can you tell us about opening a Hellmouth?"

"Very well," the Professor nodded. "As you might expect, opening a Hellmouth requires an enormous amount of power, far more than opening any other portal of any kind, especially if one hopes to hold the Hellmouth permanently. I imagine Vlad the Third Dracula would be one of the few vampires capable of wielding such power. However, there must also be a rather precise ritual _and_ a rather precise lunar alignment, centered on the location in question, to focus the powers and force the portal through. As well as some kind of trigger to get everything started, of course."

"A trigger?" Cordelia pressed, eyes narrowed.

"To initiate this kind of event," the Professor continued, "Dracula would have to obtain one of three ancient amulets, each capable of triggering such power once they themselves are roused through ritual sacrifice. But the Amulet of Adesina was lost in the ash when Pompeii was destroyed and the Rhothos Amulet, which cracked when it was used to open the Sunnydale Hellmouth, is in fact securely locked in one of the Council's vaults. As for the Eshkondan, it's become more myth than reality--only a handful of confirmed references, and the last was during the First Crusade. If it ever existed, it was lost nearly a thousand years ago."

Cordelia tensed. "Was it a small jewel--kind of colorless--on a silver chain?"

"How did you know it was a _jewel_?" the Professor gasped, as all eight men went completely still. "_No one_ outside this room knows the Eshkondan was a jewel--dear Lord, are you saying Dracula has actually assembled all these elements?"

"He has a new moon in Edinburgh," Cordelia softly replied, rubbing at her temples, "but Wesley was still researching what might be unique about this particular lunar cycle when we left. He has a small jewel on a silver chain. And he has Giles for a sacrifice. I think that covers all his bases."

"He has Giles?" A third man stepped angrily forward. "Dracula has Rupert Giles? Precisely how did the Slayer allow _that_ to happen? _Stupid_ girl--I _told_youwe--"

One minute Xander was standing there, and the next something had snapped deep inside and he was stepping up and swinging, hard, knocking the man head over heels into the center table and splattering tea and silver all over the floor.

Cordelia laid a calming hand on his shoulder. "Chatting was fun, we should do this again some time. When we aren't so busy with this whole slaying thing."

She tugged on his arm and turned to leave, and Xander was right behind her. He was terrified for Giles, for Anya, for them all--he was furious for Willow and Riley and for Buffy and the Council's ignorant shortsightedness--but for the first time in his life, what he didn't feel was _helpless_. Cordelia was right: they had work to do.

_Tailors Hall Hotel, Edinburgh_

_Just past twilight_

Buffy leaned on the sill and stared out the hotel window as the lowering darkness blanketed the streets of Edinburgh. Scotland. She was actually in Scotland. Castles, kilts, whiskey, that killer accent. It was beautiful, and exciting, and the most intriguing place she'd ever been. Except none of that really mattered, did it? This could be any room, any building, any street. Because she was only here to slay vampires and save her Watcher and a happily unsuspecting Great Britain. Because she was only here to work.

Buffy turned, ignoring her own half-eaten sandwich to watch everyone else finish their meal.

She couldn't believe Willow had talked her into letting her come. But there she sat, pale, tired, determined, the bandages still visible at her neck, the bruises still livid across her face. And her fingers flying across the keyboard of Giles' laptop, searching for any scrap of information that might help. She should be home in bed--anywhere warm and safe. Not here. Buffy wished she'd been able to say no. But the Slayer needed everyone, and Buffy's best friend Willow needed desperately not to feel like a victim. Buffy could only hope she wouldn't have to put Willow's frail strength to the test.

Oz sat next to her at the table, eyes intent on the screen, somehow managing to hover protectively without making a jumpy Willow feel crowded. Oz reached to tap at a few keys, then without missing a beat pressed the other half of Willow's sandwich back into her hand. When Willow flashed a smile of thanks to him, Buffy had to work hard not to tear something apart.

_Tara had better be in hell_, she thought grimly. And counting her lucky stars that she'd died before Buffy could get her hands on her.

A_spell._ All of it--the whole relationship, the whole time--just some miserable _spell._ And for _what_? Buffy would have given a lot to know the how's and why's of Tara's insinuating herself into their lives and Willow's bed, especially considering the timing of all the attacks. But on the other hand, she wasn't sure she could have held back long enough to ask Tara any questions if she'd had that soft little neck in her hands.

No--make that _definitely_ no--she wouldn't have.

God, she'd been so _stupid_, so concerned with alienating her best friend that she'd accepted her sudden change in sexuality without one single, solitary word. She'd been eager to accept Riley's Initiative, too, and look where _that_gullible moment had gotten her. _Note to self_, Buffy thought sourly: _always look for ulterior motives and/or dark magic when someone new comes into the group and doesn't run screaming as soon as they learn the truth._

The Edinburgh phone book _thunked_ closed onto the table and Wesley scribbled a few more numbers before closing his own laptop and reaching for the last of his dinner. She was still having a hard time accepting the changes in Wesley. He reminded her of Giles now--confident, knowledgeable, focused--and while she was grateful for his help, the resemblance to her Watcher and to her friend only managed to serve that much more sharply as a reminder of his absence.

Which she really didn't need.

Angel stood, stepping out of the shadows now that the last rays of sunlight no longer touched the room. "Buffy?" he prompted softly.

She nodded. "Research Time is up. Anything, Will?"

"Giles doesn't have anything more than the Council did on the ritual to open a Hellmouth," Willow grimaced, "but the amulet Cordelia saw in her vision _was_ in Giles' collection. His family has owned it for over four hundred years, actually, but I guess they never knew it was the Eshkondan. When we catalogued the collection this summer, we pegged it as either Zion's Gem or the Gem of Myka's Sorrow. The only description Giles had of the Eshkondan didn't mention it was a _jewel_, which is probably why he never knew. Dracula must have stolen it when he took Giles."

"Then he must have known Giles had it," Buffy scowled. "How?"

Wesley cleared his throat. "Did Tara help you catalog the collection, Willow?"

"Of course she--" Willow's jaw dropped.

Buffy stiffened in furious shock. "Tara was with us for over a _year_," she hissed. "Are you saying she was passing information on us that entire time? She knew _everything_--which means so could any demon or vamp in the world by now!"

"No, not _any_demon or vampire. Just Dracula." Wesley tapped his laptop. "A Council database I was able to access includes mention of a Taras Basarab, who also showed up in Romanian phone listings as well as a European tabloid or two. The House of Basarab was Vlad the Third Dracula's line, through his younger brother, Radu. The older brother, Mircea, was assassinated, and it's widely assumed died without issue. Dracula himself married twice, but the line of his direct heirs apparently died out four generations later. Regardless of how _she_ was descended, however, Taras Basarab was a princess and the acknowledged royal heir to his House."

Buffy took a long, slow, deep breath, holding on to her anger and her fear by nothing more than fingers and toes.

A year. Dracula had been watching them for _over__a year._ What could he know? What could he be expecting?

"I was dating Dracula's great-great-great-great-et cetera niece?" Willow choked into the stunned silence. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"I think whatever hell she's in can't possibly be hellish enough," Buffy growled, throat tight and stomach clenched. This was _so_much worse than she'd thought.

"Why Willow?" Oz asked, the quiet words laced with the same anger that still glittered deep in his eyes. "If Dracula sent Tara to spy on Buffy, then why go through Willow and not Xander, or Giles, or even Buffy's mom? None of them have half the power Willow does. Wasn't Tara taking a pretty big risk?"

Willow winced. "Not back then she wasn't, no. I was just getting started with the more powerful spells. Plus," she sighed, glancing aside at Oz, "I was pretty distracted at the time."

"I think it's more than that," Wesley shook his head. "When Dracula finally made his move, he came at you, Buffy, from nearly every angle--even Angel, if I'm right and that attempt to take Angel's soul was his doing."

"If he'd come at _me_," Buffy said icily, "he'd be dust and we'd be sightseeing."

"But he _did_, Buffy," Angel insisted. "By attacking all of us, Vlad knew he'd be hurting you, far more than if he'd come at you directly. Wes is right--and I think I see where you're going with this, Wes."

"I don't," Buffy admitted, frowning darkly. "What Spike and a vamped Tara did to Will had _nothing_ to do with any spell a mortal Tara might have been nursing along to keep herself all cozy with us."

"I think Spike was Plan B," Wesley said softly. "Mortal Tara was Plan A. She must have used a binding spell on Willow--nothing else would have been powerful enough to make Willow believe she was in love with another woman when she'd never shown any inclination in that direction before."

Buffy raised an eyebrow, still not seeing the point, but Angel finished the thought for her. "A binding spell like that, on a witch, by a dark witch--Vlad must have originally meant for Tara to seduce Willow to evil."

"That never would have happened," Buffy flatly denied.

Willow shifted restlessly.

"Is that why they went to Plan B?" Buffy continued. "Because Tara couldn't turn Willow?"

Wesley shrugged. "Or they simply ran out of time. While the binding spell would have been powerful, it would also have been a very, very subtle version, or Willow would have felt it. Which means it could have taken months more before anything would have come of it. Whatever the method, though, I think it's clear Dracula wanted to take Willow away from you."

Buffy stalked back to the window and once more leaned on the sill, shaking with anger and sharp, gnawing unease and the grim certainty that _she should__have known_. "Then Spike _was_ working with Dracula. There's no way Spike is in the middle of this and turning Tara and going after Willow without Dracula knowing about it."

"Or not," Angel cautioned, "and that's why Spike was staked--if that pile of dust in the crypt was him. However, whenever that chip stopped working, he'd have been like a kid in a candy store. He could have turned Tara without knowing she was a Basarab."

Buffy stared out at the darkness now cloaking Edinburgh, her grip on the sill tightening. "That wasn't Spike in the crypt," she slowly shook her head. "I can't get that lucky. Besides, the timing of all this is just too freakish. Including the attempt on Angel and the attacks at Riley's fraternity--maybe even luring Anya into taking off. All in one night, all Dracula, with Spike lending his slimy little hand."

"He…_Spike_ went after Riley," Willow whispered brokenly.

Buffy closed her eyes, and one by one tried to relax her fingers on the sill before she shattered it.

"He told me," Willow continued, standing abruptly. "I remember now. Oh, God, he--"

"_Willow_," Wesley interrupted sharply. Angrily Buffy turned, ready to pound him back down to size, but one look at Wesley stopped her cold. She'd never seen such tenderness on his face. "I'll need your help with this counter spell," he said, this time as gently as Giles might have--

Willow wrapped her arms around herself and took a long, shaky breath, then another. "Right," she nodded, dropping swiftly back down to her chair. "Got it. A counter spell. I knew that. Fire, air, water, or earth?"

Angel shifted toward the door, and a moment later someone knocked. "They're back," he nodded at Buffy, and swung open the door.

"London was wet," Xander sneezed as he and Cordelia entered, "the Council was not impressed, and I feel completely backwards after all those hours of driving on the wrong side of the road. What did we miss?"

"Some really Sithly conclusions," Buffy replied, "starting with Tara being related to Dracula and running screaming downhill from there."

Xander blinked. "_Related?_ Meaning I staked a _Dracula_?_Me?_ That can't be right."

Wesley nodded. "Afraid so, Xander. In the proverbial nutshell: we think Tara was actually Taras Basarab, a mortal descendant of Dracula's family; that Dracula sent her to spy on us and to seduce Willow to evil; that he's behind all the attacks, to hurt Buffy and render her ineffective; and that Spike was helping him."

Cordelia and Xander simply nodded, grim and focused, and Buffy could only stare at them. Since when did the two of _them_ respond to news like _that_… with such calm strength? What _else_ had she missed?

"Your turn, Cordelia," Wesley prompted. "I take it you reached Giles' contact?"

"It took way too long, but we finally tracked Charles down," she nodded. "He had two things for us. One, Dracula has had a very low profile for over a year now."

"He_must_have been planning this for some time," Wesley mused. "Consider how long ago he sent Tara."

"Two," Cordelia added, "he thinks Giles knew exactly what amulet he had and was keeping it misnamed as a way of hiding it."

Buffy sighed. "Secrets suck. I have yet to learn a single _good_ secret."

Wesley smiled crookedly. "It's brilliant, though, Buffy--leaving the Eshkondan hidden in miss-catalogued anonymity for hundreds of years? If Tara hadn't helped go through the collection--if Giles hadn't chosen to update the catalog this summer, after she'd arrived--then Dracula never would have known."

"Why not just destroy it?" Oz shrugged.

"Because the amulet itself is not inherently evil," Wesley softly replied. "It was created thousands of years ago so, yes, it does require ritual sacrifice to activate it. But once roused, the Eshkondan is nothing more than an extremely powerful tool. And no Watcher worth his name would ever throw _any_ tool away that might one day help the Slayer. So the only thing you_can_ do with it is hide it with someone who'll keep it safe, but never use it."

Xander raised an eyebrow. "Giles is too tall to be a hobbit."

"Enough talking," Buffy growled, the itch under her skin grown to undeniable proportions. She reached for her coat and started checking her weapons. "Now we slay. The plan is to rescue Giles, steal back the amulet, and stake Dracula. Any one of those_should_ mean safe Giles and no Hellmouth in Edinburgh. Angel, you and I will search Edinburgh Castle. Oz, Xander, I want you two patrolling Arthur's Seat. Willow--you up for this?"

Willow raised her chin. "I'm in."

"If we don't find them before they've started the ritual," Wesley interrupted, "we'll need something to _disrupt_ the ritual. I've confirmed the addresses of some magical shops and a few contacts. Willow and I should be able to concoct something quite incendiary."

"We don't have a lot of time," Cordelia said softly.

"Another vision?" Angel asked.

Cordelia shook her head. "Just a feeling that whatever's going to happen will happen _soon_."

"The new moon will be directly overhead and complete at exactly midnight," Wesley said, checking his watch. "That's what's so special about this lunar cycle. That's six hours from now. Buffy, I'd like Cordelia with Willow and me. We've got the most ground to cover. I suggest we rendezvous at Holyroodhouse in four hours, unless we've heard from you before then."

Buffy nodded, and took one long, last, loving look at her friends.

At her family.

"I hate that he came at me through all of you," she said softly. "I hate that even if you weren't on the front line with the Slayer, you'd still be targets because you're important to me. Be careful."

And then Buffy tucked her heart away and looked with hard, cold eyes at her crew. "Now we end this."

_The farthest dungeons of Edinburgh Castle_

_Just past twilight_

Vlad turned the cold, iron key in the lock and released the cell door, swinging it out with an easy flick of his fingers. He stepped into the pit, the rank, wet darkness caressing his skin as it swallowed the smoky, flickering light from the torch his servants had left in the wall.

"Is he awake?" Drusilla giggled, drifting in behind him. "I_like_ this one--he's so much _fun_."

Vlad didn't bother with a response, instead waving his hand over the prone figure lying bound against the wall and invoking the counter spells that would awaken Rupert Giles.

Magic shattered and silently released. Giles groaned, shifted, and Vlad waited as the eyes opened and the Watcher gradually regained his senses and his sanity. Coughing and blinking owlishly and shaking his head, Giles pushed himself up to sit against the wall and got his first look at his surroundings. And at them.

Vlad smiled. "Good evening," he said softly. "I believe you're already acquainted with the fair Drusilla, Rupert. What you may not know, however, is that I am Vlad the Third Dracula."

Giles' eyes widened, horrified denial lancing through his still slightly disoriented gaze. "If you're Dracula," he rasped, "then who did Buffy kill?"

Vlad shrugged. This question was becoming _quite_ tiresome. "No one of importance." Giles frowned, and Vlad nearly laughed aloud to see the brilliant mortal mind so cowed, so sluggish.

"Well?" Giles finally prompted. "I assume it was all some kind of show to make us think you were dead. What now? Where are we? What do you want? Isn't this the point where you gloat about your evil plans, and I insist that the Slayer will stop you?"

Drusilla hissed, her grip on his arm tightening and her nails cutting into his flesh with sharp, digging pain, but Vlad had to laugh this time. "A pity I didn't need you aware before now. I believe I would have found your conversation quite entertaining if you hadn't had to make this journey under the coercion of spells."

"Journey… " Giles murmured, eyes going distant as he cast back through what little memory the spells would have left him.

"Don't trouble yourself," Vlad mocked. "Simply understand that soon I will use you, and soon… you will die."

"Ah," Giles sighed. "The gloating part. I had so hoped to miss that."

Dracula smiled, a feral twist of his lips that had little to do with humor. "Prepare him," he said softly.

Drusilla clapped and danced as the hovering servants swarmed into the cell, and Vlad drifted back into the shadows, watching her croon and caress and taunt an increasingly annoyed Giles as he was stripped. His servants applied the body paint, thick crude slashes of black and red that were nevertheless meticulously precise, and Vlad trembled with the sudden hunger that tore at his belly, with the vicious anticipation that sizzled down his spine. _Nearly time now. Everything was in readiness, all the elements completely under his control. Soon he would open the Hellmouth and release the denizens of Hell to roam the Earth once more--at _his_ command!_

"My prince," Luka called urgently from the doorway, and Vlad heard something he did not want to hear in his steward's voice. He whirled and transformed in the cold, rank darkness.

_"What is it?"_ he hissed.

"The Slayer is here," Luka murmured, as if saying the words quietly would make them less ugly to hear. "She and Angel were spotted entering the castle."

_"How could she have known?"_ he growled, fury rising up to howl and shriek within him.

Luka shook his head. "A resource we did not know about?" he suggested.

With brutal, iron control Vlad released his rage. _He was so close.__Not even _this_ Slayer would stop him now_. "It doesn't matter," he said coldly. "You know what to do. Apparently William's incessant warnings weren't quite so useless."

Luka nodded, shot him a swift, abrupt bow, and was gone. Dracula stared after him, a question ricocheting through him that he could not silence. That he could not tolerate.

_How could the Slayer have known?_

With savage grace he stalked out of the darkness, pushing Drusilla and his servants aside until only the Watcher stood before him. Shirtless, paint drying on his torso, arms, neck, and face in the precise configuration required for the ritual, Giles nevertheless stared back, uncowed. Vlad stroked a cold finger down the warm, mortal throat. "How?" he demanded.

"Getting a little nervous now?" Giles calmly taunted. "Did you truly believe she wouldn't find me--wherever we are? That she wouldn't be able to stop you? These marks are very interesting. You're calling up a great deal of--"

Vlad snarled and _reached_ with power and cruel control and ripped the Watcher's will away once more. _"How?"_ he repeated icily.

"She's the best Slayer you've ever seen," Giles gasped, shuddering, face blank with shock. He shook his head, and astonishingly, defiance fired in the depths of his eyes. "She's also the last you'll ever see."

Vlad swung with demonic speed and strength and backhanded him, the cheekbone shattering, the head smacking back into the wall as the Watcher reeled. "Finish the markings _now,_" he commanded.

The servants scurried to obey, steadying the sagging Watcher and reaching once more for the paints. Vlad watched silently, coldly calculating, planning, preparing himself, Drusilla still as death at his side, until the final mark was made. Then he grabbed the rough, warm flesh of Giles' jaw and turned the bruised face, the dazed eyes, to the flickering light.

"You will make a magnificent sacrifice, Rupert Giles," Vlad crowed, vicious and low and utterly unwavering. "Not even _this_Slayer will save you." He dropped the Watcher back into his servants' hold, once more in complete control.

"Bring him."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

_George IV Bridge, Edinburgh_

_That night_

Willow stumbled on the uneven sidewalk, trying not to cringe from the feel of hands on her as both Wesley and Cordelia reached to steady her. "I'm fine," she said, pulling away, not caring if it was true or not. The words simply flew out of her mouth as automatically as they had been since the second time she'd woken up and realized what was happening. Because she would _not_be left behind. Not when Buffy might need her. Not when she could help.

Certainly not because of what two brainless, soulless, Hell-spawned demons had done to her.

So she'd come. She'd read through Giles' documents until her eyes had burned. She'd eaten when her stomach was tight with nerves and knots and her head had pounded with pain and nausea. She'd tried to rest when she'd known Spike and a demonic Tara would be waiting for her in the darkness behind her closed eyes. She'd sat between Xander and Oz in the cab and managed not to come straight out of her skin at the press of their bodies. She'd even changed her own dressings without throwing up at the red, raw reminders of that horrifying night.

_I will not be a victim_. Willow wanted to scream the words into the darkness so loudly that they echoed back to her. But there was Wesley, and Cordelia, both already watching her and hovering about her, and Willow settled for silently chanting the words in her mind and belatedly wrenching her thoughts to something--anything--else. Like their task: create a spell that would halt the ritual, then gather all the ingredients.

First up had been writing the spell. Their first stop, The Winged Cauldron, had had all the spell books they could have dreamed of. Finally--a little bit of luck in their direction. They'd woven an air spell and a fire spell together to control both elements and disrupt any powers already summoned, and added an earth spell to counteract the influence of the lunar alignment. Unfortunately, they still needed a disturbingly long list of ingredients to make it all work.

Willow glanced up at the address of the building they were passing and picked up her pace. "Come on," she said grimly. "It should be in the next block."

The Frankenstein Pub, established 1818. It could only be more of a coincidence if Wesley's contact had wanted to meet them at Dracula Cantina.

Something in her face or her voice must have reassured him, because finally Wesley looked away from her, taking the lead as they approached the plain, dark entrance. No line. Another little bit of luck. Willow followed Wesley and Cordelia into the club.

The music was loud, the lighting gloomy, the monster lab setting and props busy and neon. Willow flinched away from a couple staggering by. _So many people_, young, from the university, loud and laughing and _too much, too much._ Even worse than the airport. Willow stepped closer to Cordelia and clenched her fists and forced a deep breath into her suddenly starving lungs.

_Breathe_, she reminded herself. _It's just a club like the Bronze. Except it's in Edinburgh. And it's darker. And it's louder. And it's really really crowded._

They slid into a booth, Willow perching uneasily on the edge of the bench next to Wesley and watching as he extended his hand to the young, bookish-looking man already sitting there.

"Good to see you, Duncan," Wesley managed a smile. "I wish we had time to talk, but I've got to assemble all these ingredients in the next hour or so. Anything crossed off we obviously already have. Can you help with the rest?"

Duncan perused the list Wesley handed over, frowning as he read further down the page. "An' wha' would yeh be needin'--"

The waiter loomed suddenly, dressed in Frankenstein Pub black, tall and pale with shocking blond hair and blocking her into the seat--

"I'll wait outside," Willow choked, and bolted past him for the door.

She ran past the startled bouncer and veered right, back the way they'd come, only stopping a block later because her legs were too shaky to take another step. Willow collapsed on a stoop and pressed herself into a ball and scrabbled wildly for control. _She had to breathe, she had to stop shaking, she had to think and help and be strong._

"It's okay, Willow," Cordelia said quietly, and Willow reared back, startled, and scooted higher on the steps. Squatting in front of her, Cordelia didn't move.

"Take all the time you need," Cordelia continued, a gentleness in her voice and face that Willow had never heard or seen there before. "We'll meet Wesley and Duncan when you're ready."

"Meet them?" Willow stuttered, glancing around. They were alone on the street. "Where?"

Cordelia settled herself on the sidewalk. "Duncan's place. I guess he wanted to make sure it was Wesley before he took us there."

"Right," Willow shuddered, fingers digging into her bruised legs. _Hold on. She just had to hold on. _"Caution. Sensible," she babbled. "I mean, we could be anyone, not with the Slayer, just looking for powerful ingredients for a dangerous spell for all the wrong reasons and--"

"Breathe, Will," Cordelia murmured.

Willow breathed.

"Take your time," Cordelia repeated softly. "Whenever you're ready."

"Then we'll sit here all night," Willow snapped, abruptly furious with herself, with her weakness and her fears and all the hated memories still screaming around in her head. "Let's go." She pushed to her feet, still shaking, but needing to _move_. And when Cordelia took her hand, this time she didn't flinch--she squeezed, hard, and Cordelia squeezed back.

"This way," Cordelia tugged, nodding at her, and Willow took a deep breath and followed, _somehow_ managing to keep the tears behind her eyes.

_I will not be a victim,_ she silently promised herself_. I will _not_ be a victim._

_A hidden chamber in Edinburgh Castle_

_That night_

Anya curled her feet under her and reached for her glass, swirling the amber liquor negligently as she watched the fire. Flames licked, wood _cracked_, and with a shower of sparks another log fell. Servants had quietly kept the fire in the elegant chamber lit, but Luka had stacked that wood himself, and started the fire, and taken her there in front of those flames on that very rug, right where she sat, while candlelight flickered and a magnificent meal prepared just for her had waited on the table.

There was silk next to her skin, and jewels around her neck. Gifts from the Dark Prince, Luka had said, even though she'd failed to free Angelus. She'd understood she still owed Dracula a boon, but she'd recklessly enjoyed the luxury and the pampering and the sinfully delicious sex. Because it didn't matter what else he might ask of her. She'd repay the boon, whenever it was called, basking in Vlad Dracula's extravagant hospitality in the meantime. And then, thanks to him, she would be free.

Free, and immortal, with power singing in her every move, every glance, every moment.

How could she _ever_ have resigned herself to being so pitiably _mortal_?

The year with the Slayer seemed far away--almost as if it had happened to someone else. Except she remembered the helplessness all too well. And the fear. The shame and the pity.

_But no more_. Her lip curled back, and Anya laughed and hurled the glass at the flames. It shattered, liquor splashing, and the flames roared high with a wild rush.

A hand twisted in her hair and turned her head and with sudden, biting hunger Anya surged to her knees and into Luka's violent embrace. She held him to her with ferocious strength, writhing against him, all sinuous need, one hand fisted in his hair, the other stroking him roughly through the silk of his pants.

But Luka grabbed her wrists and pulled her arms cruelly behind her, leaving her gasping at the unexpected pain. He held her like that, on her knees, pressed close, powerful arms around her, nuzzling at her neck, lightly scoring her skin with his fangs, and Anya threw her head back and waited, trembling with the wild rage of her desire.

"Anything?" he murmured the word into her ear, hot and seductive, and meaning shot through to her fevered brain.

"_Anything_," she growled back, twisting in his arms. "Whatever he wants. As long as you finish this first."

"Conditions, Anya?" he laughed, the low, husky sound shearing through her.

Anya bit at his shoulder, wordlessly demanding, exulting in the moan she won from him.

Luka shifted his grip, both her wrists in one hand, long, powerful fingers closing smoothly around her neck. "He has a part for you to play," he said, licking a scalding line of kisses along her jaw. "They must find you alone, frightened…" His fingers tightened. "… and captive."

They? There could only be one "they." Somehow, it no longer mattered.

"Beaten?" she purred suggestively. "I'll have to be _very_convincing, or the Slayer will see right through his plans."

"A splendid idea. And what better way to mark you," he crooned, "than _this_?"

Luka tore the silk from her body and threw her to the floor and came down hard on her, hard into her, driving her mindless with brutal strokes and bites and blows and savage, bruising thrusts. She tore at him, craving the violent hunger and the blistering rush of pleasure pain like she'd craved nothing ever before, arching into the fingers closing round her neck, squeezing, as he pounded her into the floor.

Anya thrashed and gasped and grabbed at his fingers, blackness dancing before her eyes in time with each lunge, each thrust, each fiery penetration, until with sudden, vicious strength he plunged to her very depths and shattered her into a million glittering, shining pieces that spun and tumbled and plummeted burning into darkness.

_The dungeons of Edinburgh Castle_

_A short while later_

"Nothing," Buffy snapped, holding her torch high and staring into the shadowy depths of another open, ripe, _empty_cell. "We've been all over this place, Angel. If they were holding Giles here, they're long gone. We're wasting time now--we need to get out of Dungeon Central and meet the others." She turned away, but Angel's urgent grip on her shoulder stopped her cold. "What?"

"I don't know," he whispered, head raised. "Something. Just a hint of… I think it's _perfume_."

Buffy swore, long and low, but she didn't really have a choice. And she knew it. "Hurry, then. Because I don't feel a thing--no vampires, no danger, _nothing_. It won't happen here. If there's somebody down here, we've got to get them out quickly."

Angel nodded. "This way."

They moved quickly, purposefully, but the damp, biting wind tore fitfully through the long, cold halls, wreaking havoc with Angel's senses and sending them down two wrong turns, a third, backtracking again, until Buffy wanted to tear down the walls in her frustration.

"We don't have time for this," she finally decided, angry with their failure, but desperately afraid of what would happen if they didn't stop the ritual in time. "We'll come back. We've--"

And then she heard it.

Soft, a moan, a hopeless, broken _moan._

Buffy turned and ran, Angel at her side. They sprinted down the cross corridor--a dog leg turn--the air different here, the smells of fear and pain and blood more recent--and whirled and kicked together and splintered the cell door off its hinges. The moan escalated into a wailing, terrified howl as they pushed inside.

_"No--not me! Not me!"_

Buffy froze, staring in utter shock at the filthy figure crawling franticly away from them.

_"Anya?"_ she gasped. Beside her Angel stiffened, and Buffy knew she wasn't dreaming. This nightmare was for real.

Anya curled into a tight, whimpering ball in the far corner. Buffy thrust the torch at Angel and dropped to her knees in the cold, wet filth and held out her hands, guilt and fury and failure shredding her heart.

"Anya, it's _me_," she said gently. "It's _Buffy_. It's okay--you're safe now."

_She should have been safe before,_ a bitter inner voice flayed her sore heart. _Because you should have protected her._ But Anya went utterly still, silent, not even breathing, and Buffy thrust the voice aside and made herself focus on the only thing she could do for Anya _now_.

"It's all right, Anya," she soothed. "I'm really here. We need to get you out of--"

Anya launched herself into Buffy's arms, nearly knocking her over, but Buffy held on to the sobbing figure, bending close when she realized Anya was trying to speak.

"I didn't think you'd come," Anya moaned, "not--not for me."

Buffy went hot with shame. What could she say to that? Because she _hadn't_ come for Anya. After that last scene Xander had told her about, she'd never seriously thought Anya had done anything but walk out on him. It had only been the _timing_ that had made her wonder.

"Anya?" Angel quietly prompted, kneeling beside them. "Can you tell us what happened?"

Anya pressed herself tighter into Buffy. "They took us," she softly stammered. "Me and Giles. At the Magic Box. I went back to get my things and _Dracula_was there for Giles! I thought you'd killed him, but it was _Dracula._"

Urgency broke over Buffy like a tidal wave, pounding her into the stone then lifting her to her feet, Anya still in her arms. "Walk and talk," Buffy breathed, supporting Anya as Angel wrapped his jacket around her, covering the cold, bruised skin and muddy clothes. "We need to go _now._"

"Why did Vlad bring both of you?" Angel prompted. "They need Giles for the ritual, but why didn't he just kill you in Sunnydale?"

Anya shuddered so hard Buffy nearly dropped her. "Why do you _think_?" she snapped, clutching the coat to her. "Has it been so long you've forgotten? Vlad alwaystraveled with a nice, warm, _living_supply of blood--what else would he want useless little Anya for? I'm just lucky he had enough _stock_ that he didn't need me yet."

Anya pulled away from her, staggering out to the hall, and Buffy could only let her go. _Damn it,_ she'd had so little patience for Anya before--and she didn't have the time for her now. Later! _I promise, Anya_, she swore silently. _I will make all of this up to you later._ But right now, she had a job to do--and she _had_to stay focused.

"Which way is out?" Anya demanded shrilly. "I want to get _out_ of here!"

"This way," Buffy said grimly, leading Anya right. "Anya, what about Giles--or Dracula? Do you know where they are?"

Anya shook her head, her grip tightening on the coat. "I haven't seen either of them since we got here," she whispered. "They took Giles… somewhere else."

"Did Vlad tell you anything?" Angel pressed. "You knew him before, didn't you?"

Anya laughed, but it was a short, sharp, bitter little sound. "The great Vlad the Third doesn't confide in _ex_-demons. But I recognized enough on the way here to know we're in Edinburgh, and that means he needs the Seat. I'd look there if I were you."

Buffy grabbed Anya's arm and pulled her to an abrupt stop. "What do you know about Arthur's Seat?"

Anya yanked her arm free. "That's all I'm good for--right? A little bit of ex-demon history now and then? Well, fine, Buffy, you got me out of there, so I'll give you one more piece of me. The Seat is an ancient place of power--dark and light, there's more magic in that dead volcano than nearly anywhere else in Europe. _Now_ can we go?"

"Just one more thing," Buffy managed, clinging to patience. Anya had a right to be angry at her. But _she_ still had work to do. "There was an amulet--it's actually a small jewel on a silver chain. Do you know where it is?"

"Around Giles' neck," Anya said shortly.

Buffy didn't bother with any more words. She just ran, Angel next to her, Anya scrambling to keep up. They cleared the castle and Buffy paused just long enough to dig into her pocket for the room key.

"Tailors Hall Hotel, 139 Cowgate," she gasped at Anya, tossing the key. "You'll be safe there."

And then she was running again, hard, veering east and heading straight for Holyroodhouse and the Seat. The frigid night air bit at her face and her hands, and burned in her lungs. Darkness settled thick and heavy over her as they left the city behind, but calm came with it. She was the Slayer. This was what she'd been born to do. Everything else fell away. She ran easily, her night vision electrifyingly sharp, everything clear to her heart, her mind, her eyes.

The hiding place Oz and Xander had chosen near the palace gate was good, but Buffy led Angel straight to them, pausing only long enough to allow Angel to reassure Xander about Anya and take the report--six vampires patrolling the Seat, now dusted. And definite activity, high at the mouth of the volcano, on the side facing the sea. But she'd known that. Somewhere inside she'd known since she'd stepped on Scottish soil that this would end at the Seat.

Buffy paced as Angel dialed his cell phone, but before he'd punched in the last number Wesley, Cordelia, and Willow were rounding the corner of the grounds at Holyroodhouse. And each now carried a small duffel.

"Tell me you got everything, Wes," Buffy demanded. "It's confirmed--Giles, the Eshkondan, at the Seat."

Wesley nodded. "Earth, air, and fire, Buffy. We're ready."

"Oz," Buffy quietly ordered. Wordlessly he turned, leading the way back to the Seat, everyone falling in, everyone silent and stealthy in the still, cold darkness.

_We're coming, Giles,_ Buffy thought. _Hold on._


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

_Arthur's Seat_

_Just before midnight_

Deep in darkness at the mouth of the volcanic vent, Vlad waited, motionless, staring down far below at the path that would bring the Slayer to him.

Soft, cold hands smoothed his cloak aside and touched his back, stroking slowly to his hips. "They're coming," Drusilla sighed, her teeth closing sharply over his ear.

"Of course," he sneered. He had left them no other choice.

She pressed herself to his back, her hands snaking around to his chest, her touch scoring his skin through the silk of his shirt. Vlad grabbed her wrists and pulled her roughly around to face him.

"Where is William, Drusilla?" he hissed the words, his hard, cold gaze boring into the shining chaos of hers. "Hiding after all?"

She laughed, low and silky, as she tore her hands free and tangled her fingers in his hair. "Not hiding--waiting."

"He is more cunning than I believed," Vlad snarled, and bit cruelly at her jaw. "You'll go to him, after--won't you?"

He licked at the blood welling on her jaw and she nodded, moaning. The taste of blood rose in his mouth, her body liquid and supple and sinuous against him, and raging hunger soared undeniably through him. Lips stretched in a fiendish smirk, he thrust Drusilla to the ground and stood over her, anticipation barely, fiercely leashed.

"Be certain you watch everything closely, then, Drusilla," he growled softly. "Especially when I break the Slayer. You must tell William everything--I wouldn't want him to _regret_ not returning to my side."

"She is very strong," Drusilla archly crooned the challenge.

"She will submit to me," he insisted coldly.

Soundlessly Drusilla laughed, climbing languidly to her feet. "_Very_strong," she whispered. For an instant she went still, prescience shattering her dead, blue eyes. Then she threw her arms wide and spun carelessly about like a child and he knew.

The Slayer was here.

Silently Vlad turned back to the mouth of the vent. _This night--under this new moon--blood, and fear, and matchless death._ He gathered his power, coiling it tightly within him as the first one came into view.

The werewolf.

Ruthlessly he scattered his wolves from their hiding places, releasing them back into the night. He would not risk losing the pack to an alpha. So. William had been right again. Either the Slayer's need or the witch's love had called the werewolf back. But no matter.

_Ah._ Finally… the Slayer.

That his most formidable opponent should be so young. So soft. So_blonde_. And so foolish.

The werewolf's nose went up at the same moment the Slayer paused. Soundlessly Vlad signaled the attack, watching critically as vampires swarmed the trail and the fighting began.

The sounds and smells--the feel--the very _taste_of battle-- Need seared him to his very core. Vlad wrapped his cloak around him, his power poised, and struck.

_Arthur's Seat_

_Just before midnight_

Buffy lunged sideways under the blow, twisted away from another, and thrust both stakes deep--sharp--then dove aside through the twin clouds of ashes. She rolled, kicking out as she came back to her feet, sending another vampire flying back into the pack and clearing an instant of space.

Slayer senses screamed the warning and she shouted "Oz!" and whirled, hurling a stake through the darkness--dead center--another dusted--and Oz stepped into the gap and pulled a gasping, shaking Willow behind him.

Buffy darted back, kicking viciously, shattering a knee, then pierced the falling chest as she glanced swiftly around. They were horribly outnumbered--nothing new there--but the path wasn't wide enough for the entire pack to come at them at once. Angel, Wes, and Cordelia--_Wes and Cordelia?_--had taken the rear, smoothly, grimly coordinated, nothing getting by in that direc-- Buffy ducked a punch from her right and spun, threw one, two, three rights of her own, another two quick jabs with the stake, another two swirling puffs of ash, another moment to look--

Oz was holding the front, somehow keeping Willow protected--an opening to Oz's left as he shifted too far right, a pair of vamps moving with demonic speed to take advantage, and Buffy raised her arm to throw--and _Xander_ was suddenly there, fist cocked, knocking one vamp back into the other, lunging with the stake in his other hand. A grunt from above the trail, a whoosh of air close behind, and Buffy dropped and ducked, letting a vamp sail over her. He fell and rolled and now she threw, springing up twisting into a cartwheel, snatching the stake from the dirt before the ash had fallen swirling to the ground. A quick back flip gave her the time and space to grab another stake from her coat pocket, ready to hold the middle ground. She whirled to face the next--_and she couldn't move._

Sound dropped away, perception narrowed, nothing in her ears but the roar of utter silence, nothing in her sight but him. He was tall, wrapped in darkness as thick as the cloak that fell from broad shoulders to brush the ground as he stalked to her, and still she couldn't move. Darkness poured from him and reached for her, with fingers so cold their touch burned.

He smiled, pulling her gaze to the chiseled face coming slowly out of shadow. Another step closer and she could see the arrogant smirk, a final step and he was right in front of her, power coursing off him in waves. Strong hands stroked her neck, tilted her head back, exposing her throat, and Buffy fought with all her strength to move an arm--a hand--a _finger_--but all she managed to do was open her mouth to scream. He swooped down on her, nuzzling sharply at her neck, harsh fingers digging into her hips and pulling her into him, and the sound that escaped her instead was a hoarse moan as desire seared sudden and deep and hot in her belly.

_It was him._ Finally--finally--it was _him_, taking her mouth with a savagery that sent a furious excitement sizzling through her once more. She closed her eyes, feeling every glorious inch of him, clinging to him, pressing shamelessly into his unyielding hold. She ached for him, _needed_him, the edgy, desperate hunger enflaming her like nothing else ever had, and she bit back at his hard, devouring lips, remembering, knowing,_daring, demanding._ His hand fisted in her hair and she reveled in his strength and waited breathlessly until he yanked her head back, hard. His cruel laugh rasped over her and she knew--he would _take_ her, _now_, make her his--all that mattered was being _his_. She writhed against him, impatient for what only _he_ could give her, but pain flared at her neck and he went still and she growled as she opened her eyes. Darkness shifted across his features as he raised his head, lips curled in a bloody, vicious grin, eyes glittering with savage pleasure, and she stared at--

_Dracula._

Recognition thrust through her like a hot, stinging blade, her friends' frantic cries shattering the cold silence, and Buffy shouted, a wordless cry of fury. Hands hard with loathing, face twisted in bitter denial, she clawed free of his hold and lunged for his heart.

_Her stakes. Where were the stakes she'd just--she'd _dropped_ them?_

Again he laughed, the awful sound shearing through her, and with an easy flick of his hand Dracula sent her sailing. She landed hard against the cliff wall, cracking her head, rocks biting into her back, her head still spinning as she jumped back to her feet.

"So this is the Slayer," he crooned, licking luxuriantly at his bloodied lips. Buffy threw a hand up to the heat at her neck, knew before her fingers came away slick and red that he'd bitten her--_that she'd let him_. "Not nearly so formidable as I'd been told."

She was trembling, she realized, rage--and desire--slithering under her skin in equal parts. "Nice trick," she snarled. "But it won't work any more. I know who you are now."

Buffy dropped, spinning, grabbing both stakes from the dirt, coming up and out of the spin with both arms ready to throw--

She stumbled, holding on to the stakes by no more than her fingertips, because Xander was holding Willow hard against his chest and they were suddenly somehow in the way.

_"Move!"_ she screamed, and Xander's hand lifted and wrapped around Willow's bruised, bandaged throat and that was when she knew, when she saw--Xander's vacant eyes--shock holding Willow stiff and dumb in his hold--and the triumph in Dracula's cold, hard gaze.

_No._

"Xander," Buffy said sternly, willing him to look at her, to break free of the control Dracula had somehow reestablished. "Let her go. That's_Willow_, Xander. _Let her go._"

"He is mine now, Slayer. As are you all." Dracula raised his hand, a few soft words leaving his lips, and Xander's fingers obediently tightened around Willow's neck. Dracula stared at her over Xander's shoulder, head cocked, challenge sparking in his eyes, and Buffy dropped both her stakes.

"Guys," she softly ordered, nothing more, but that was enough. Around them the fighting came to an abrupt, silent halt.

Dracula smiled, and wiped the last of her blood from his mouth. One sharp gesture of command, and the pack of vampires pushed Angel, Cordelia, Wes, and Oz toward her so they stood in a tight group, the cliff wall at their backs. And then a high, childish giggle sliced through the hushed darkness.

Buffy's glance whipped left, lips tightening in anger as _Drusilla_ danced up the trail. _Of course._ With Spike restored to his demonic self, could Drusilla be far behind?

"It's time for the party," Drusilla sang, spinning, and now the fury raged high and hot, relief hard on its heels. Because it wasn't Spike coming up the trail behind Drusilla, it was two vampires, dragging a semi-conscious Giles between them. He was bruised, bloodied--_painted_, the Eshkondan dangling to the middle of his bare, marked chest_--_but he was alive.

"Giles!" Buffy called. He stirred--he knew she was there--but sagged again in their hold. Buffy's heart dropped to her toes. How bad was he hurt? How much of that was for real? Would he--

Angel swore, and Buffy dragged her gaze away, to movement behind Giles… and saw _Anya_, the fear and the torn, dirty clothes gone, her face hard and closed, power a subtle sheen all around her as she strolled arm and arm with a vampire every bit as tall and dark and chiseled as Dracula.

_Another_betrayal, ripping through Buffy with such ferocity she could barely breathe. "You _bitch_," she hissed.

Angel's hand ghosted gently across her back, but Anya didn't even look at her. She paused in the middle of the trail, halting the steps of the vampire with her with an imperious tightening of her fingers on his arm. "The boon is paid, Count?" she called to him.

"The boon is paid, Anyanka," Dracula nodded, turning to smile at her. "You may go--or stay. Whatever is your wish."

A fierce, vicious joy lit Anya's eyes, her entire face, and it was all Buffy could do to hold herself back.

"Of course," Wes breathed beside her. "All Dracula had to do was find a way to restore Anyanka and get her together with Drusilla, who very much believes you scorned her, Angel."

"One wish later," Angel scowled, "and there nearly went my soul. I _still_ have a headache."

"This isn't over, Anya," Buffy shouted, the bitter taste of ashes in her throat.

Now Anya glanced aside at them. "It is for some, Slayer." She turned away, her free hand sliding beneath the vampire's shirt and settling over his heart, and Buffy realized that was it. That was all she'd hear from Anya. No answers, no explanations. Buffy's heart contracted. Xander would probably never forgive himself--and neither would she. Provided, of course, she could get them all out of this.

"I owe you for a great many things, Luka," Anya continued. Power flashed from her hand at his chest, a brilliant, searing light, and the vampire Luka staggered back as Anya released him. There were marks scored into his chest, a symbol Buffy didn't recognize. Even as she watched, it began to fade. "Call me, and I will come."

The light flared again, radiant and burning in the darkness, and when it faded Anya was gone.

"Oh," Drusilla pouted like a disappointed child. "She's going to miss all the fun." In an instant she transformed, sidling up to Dracula and pressing against him, her eyes dark with hunger as she stared at Angel. "More fun for me," she purred.

"Stay then," Dracula ordered, stepping away. "No doubt William will enjoy hearing the details as much as I."

_Will_ enjoy? Buffy scowled.

"So he's not dead yet," Wes sighed.

"Where is he?" Oz growled.

"Enough." Dracula's glance flicked dispassionately over them, then rose skyward. "It's time. _Luka._"

Luka nodded at the vampires holding Giles and they pressed on, climbing the trail, while around them the pack stepped closer. A word of command from Luka, and Xander gave Willow a sharp shove toward them. Oz moved quickly to catch her, placing her squarely behind him as the pack pressed in on them. Dracula simply walked away and disappeared beyond the bend in the trail, following Giles, the Eshkondan, and a dozen vampires, Xander trailing listlessly after them all.

Buffy felt all her senses sharpen, her muscles tighten. She was the Slayer, and her duty was clear, even if that meant abandoning--no,_trusting_--her friends to this fight. "Keep them off my back for as long as you can, Angel," she said, her throat tight. "Willow, you and that spell are with me. We've _got_ to stop the ritual."

Xander rounded the bend, Luka grinned and said, "Take them," and Buffy grabbed the nearest vamp, snapped his neck, and pulled another stake from her coat pocket as two more vamps charged through the falling ashes.

Angel took them both out. "Go," he nodded at her, stepping into another blow, and Buffy darted through the opening he'd created, Willow right behind her.

_Arthur's Seat_

Each step slow and precise, Xander followed Dracula higher and higher on the trail.

Yes, following his Master. That was what he should do, right? Right. His Master was here, for real this time, and he was following right behind the smooth, cloaked breadth of Dracula's unprotected back--no, no, _he_ was protecting his Master's back. Yes. From… someone. Something. Oh, well. It didn't matter, because he was there, and his Master was safe, and they were going…

Hadn't Drusilla said something about a party? Yeah, a party. And for once, he was invited. Too bad he'd had to leave Willow behind with the others. She could use a good party. Especially after he'd very nearly had to…

His hands were shaking. Why were his hands shaking? He couldn't very well protect his Master with his hands shaking. Xander clenched and unclenched his fingers a few times, until the shaking went away. Better. Much better.

They rounded another bend, skirting an outcropping overrun with ground cover, and the space opened abruptly. Dracula shifted, stepping to the right, circling something ahead, and Xander kept his eyes on his Master and followed.

"Wait here," Dracula snapped, and Xander's feet stopped moving.

Except… Shouldn't he stay with his Master? Who would protect him now? Who would… "Hey, Giles," Xander smiled. He tried to wave, but his hands still wouldn't work right. Oh, well. Giles wasn't looking anyway. Xander shook his hands out and looked for his Master.

Oh, there he was. Right behind that big, flat rock where Giles was… sleeping? Huh. Must be pretty tired, to sleep through the party. He should go wake Giles up. Except his Master had said to wait there. Xander shuffled his feet. He really should go wake-- Oh, his Master was talking to Giles. Well, shouting, actually. That would wake Giles up, and then--his hands were tingling now, damn it. _That_ shouldn't be happening. Xander rubbed at his palms and abruptly shoved both hands into his pockets. His Master would be angry if he couldn't help.

And he really wanted to help, really wanted to be strong and useful to Buf--to his Master. So he would wait there, like he'd been told, and when his Master finished all that shouting in whatever language that was and put away that shiny knife and needed him, his hands would be fine.

The wind picked up, bitterly cold, one moment hurling his Master's words to him, the next snatching them away. Gosh, Giles had to be cold. And the way the wind was blowing that neat cloak around his Master, he might as well not be wearing it. Xander shivered and turned his face away from another frigid thrust of the wind and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. He really wanted to help, but it was so cold. Maybe his Master would move the party indoors as soon as he--

He went flying, out of control, pushed hard from behind, and Xander stumbled and fell twisting and yanked his hands out of his pockets as he tried to brace-- He smacked into cold, unforgiving stone, pain flaring high and bright in his head, impact driving the breath from his body.

"Sorry, Xander," someone said--_Buffy?_--and then he was alone, his knees gone to water, feeling himself sliding helplessly down, darkness and wind and blinding flashes of light spinning end over end in front of his eyes.

_His Master._ Was this an attack? Or was this the party? Xander pushed through the fire in his shoulder and the whirling nausea and gulped down some air and forced himself to his knees. He had to help, he had to be there for Buf--for his Master. What was--

A high, wild cry full of power and fury split the air and exploded in his ears and Xander winced and scrambled to his feet. Was that Willow? That had sounded like Willow. More words, shouted, cutting through the wind--_yes, definitely Willow_--and the ground rocked beneath him, sending him staggering back into stone and hard, cold earth. He grabbed at the rock at his back and kept himself upright and forced his aching eyes open--

To chaos. To battle and death and puffs of screaming ash and _they were all there,_ Buffy and Willow and all the others, fighting that army of vampires like he'd never seen them fight before. Where had they all come from? _What should he do?_ Xander's head swiveled franticly around--nausea roiled up, but he swallowed and blinked hard and forced it back down and kept looking--where was his Master? _He'd said to wait. _But how could he wait? They would need--_his Master_ would need_--where was he?_ He'd been _there_, right next to Giles. But that was Wesley--Wesley had reached Giles, and Giles wasn't sleeping any more, he was kicking at a vampire and shouting something--shouting to Wesley, something that made Wesley turn just as Luka stepped up and slashed at Wesley with a knife.

_Kill them._ The command howled in his brain, piercing the nausea and the eerie fog of silence in his ears, and as his Master's words echoed round and round Xander felt himself running--running right into the battle--_running right at Wesley._

Xander shoved a falling vampire back at Oz and out of his way. He leapt over Cordelia as she straddled a vampire and drove a stake into its heart, danced round Angel and two more vamps. He didn't turn his head, never took his eyes off Wesley and Luka, but he saw it all and heard it all and felt it, all, every thrust and parry of the battle. So he _saw_ Luka's cold smile, _saw_ Wesley react to the feint and step right into his path, and then he was plowing into Wesley from the side and wrapping his arms around him and thrusting him back against the stone where Giles still struggled to free himself.

He_felt_ Wesley's ribs take the impact, _felt_rather than heard Wesley's snarl of pain, and Xander kept his arms around him and tried to use their momentum to bounce him back against the stone but Wesley moved, stronger and faster than Xander expected, spinning out of his grasp. Xander ducked Wesley's swinging right fist and hurled himself under Wesley's guard, landing two pounding blows on his already cracked ribs. Wesley dropped like a stone and Xander moved to follow him down, the order to _kill_ ricocheting round his mind, but there was movement, _swift, to his left, falling motion_, and Xander twisted and reached up and grabbed the stake Cordelia had very nearly driven into his heart.

_"Xander,"_she gasped, stepping back, and that instant of hesitation was all Xander needed. He heaved himself up, his right hand closing round her throat, his left raising the stake high.

_"Xander!"_ Now she shouted, twisting in his hold, and something ripped through the cold and the numbness and drew his gaze up, to the fury and the fear in her eyes--in Cordelia'seyes--in_Cordelia's_big, beautiful brown eyes, in the eyes of the woman he'd loved and foolishly, stupidly hurt. The love he'd buried and the endless shame and the hot, aching regrets tore through him without mercy and left him trembling and empty before her.

He blinked. Where… What…

_Oh, no. Not again. They'd-- Dracula had-- He'd nearly killed--_

_No…_

His hand dropped from her neck and the stake dropped from his fingers and Xander staggered limply back until he came up against the stone. "Cordelia?" he whispered.

An instant of emotion overflowed in her eyes--recognition and relief and forgiveness and a thousand other things that he didn't have the time to name--and then she stooped and grabbed the stake and flung it over his shoulder. Xander snapped around just in time to see a furious Luka dodge the missile.

Rage rose red and hot in his brain, in his gut--and with it came strength.

"Get Giles out of here," Xander snarled, and vaulted over the stone.

_Arthur's Seat_

The moment was gone.

That one moment of perfect lunar alignment--that _one, single_ chance to open the Hellmouth, after all his meticulous planning, with all the necessary elements beatifically assembled--had _passed_.

And no more than a handful of miserable mortal heartbeats after the witch and the Slayer had interrupted the ritual. So close. He'd been so unbelievably close. Vlad clenched the sacrificial knife in his right fist more tightly, beating down the howling, clawing rage, _thinking_,_calculating_, while his eyes took in every last, miserable, infuriating detail of the _rout_ before him.

The_Slayer_. Luka had earned her death, had proven himself countless times in over six hundred years of loyal service. He _should_ have been able to rely on Luka to finish her--at the very least, to delay her long enough for him to open the Hellmouth.

Except there she was, still alive, wading through what was left of his army of demons like they were so much cattle to be slaughtered.

And there was Luka, barely holding his own against the surprizingly able_Xander Harris,_ who had _somehow_ broken his own, brutal control. A much, _much_ stronger mortal than he'd been led to believe. Vlad's lip curled in contempt. Once more, his darling niece had failed him, neglecting to mention _that_ little development. Unfortunately she was already dead and would never feel his wrath, and Luka would join her shortly. While Drusilla… was nowhere to be seen.

_"Fools,"_ Vlad spat. He'd been surrounded by _fools_. He should have listened to William.

To_William_? Now _that_ was a disquieting thought. Hmm. And quite possibly the most intriguing of all. The next time he went up against the Slayer, he would have to pay a visit to William first. Obviously the breadth of his knowledge of the Slayer was more than Vlad had given him credit for.

Vlad lifted the jewel dangling from the fingers of his left hand. Blackened and cracked from the witch's spell, _but not destroyed_. There _would_ be another time. He tucked the Eshkondan into his pocket and furiously turned to leave. He had work to do. There were more plans to make, another army to create, _a great deal of blood to spill_ to drive the taste of failure from his mouth.

"My prince!" Luka shouted, pleading in the hoarse voice, and Vlad paused and stared back across the battle at his steward.

"You failed me, Luka," he said viciously, softly, but Luka had nevertheless heard.

Harris nearly took Luka down in that second of inattention, and Vlad frowned darkly. What a pathetic death. For a moment Vlad considered intervening. He _could_ give Luka the kind of death he deserved. But Luka lunged sideways, brought his fist up sharply into Harris' stomach, and drove him back. Vlad waited. If Luka actually managed to redeem himself--

Too late. The Slayer herself had turned to help Harris. That _would_ be fitting, if Luka brought about his own death at her hands after he'd failed to kill her himself. A death Vlad could actually _enjoy_ watching her mete out. But Luka turned and leapt high, out of the mouth of Arthur's Seat, and Vlad heard him yell for Anya. He had only an instant of surprize, and then the sign seared into Luka's chest burned bright as a full moon. When the light faded, Luka was gone.

Anyanka? Luka had called to _Anyanka?_

Vlad found himself wanting, obscurely, to laugh. How could _everything_ have gone so horrifically _wrong_? He would be a long time analyzing the path to this night's miserable outcome.

_"Dracula!"_ The Slayer called her challenge, climbing after him. But Angel and the werewolf were with her, Luka and Drusilla and Anyanka were gone, William had been right after all, and his army was a thick layer of ashes left behind them.

The moment had passed.

He loosed his fury in the sharp words of the spell, let it catch them all and lift them and thrust them back with brutal strength to the cold ground of Arthur's Seat.

Another spell, more power wrenched from the depths of his demonic core, and in a burst of smoke and wind and sound, Vlad III Dracula disappeared.

_Charing Cross Road, London_

_Early evening, two days later_

Buffy leaned back in her corner of the taxi and pretended to watch London roll past. But she wasn't doing a good job of it. Her ears kept ignoring everything else to listen for the sounds of Giles' breathing, while her eyes kept straying to his dimly lit form in the other corner of the taxi. She tried, she really did. She was probably getting on his nerves. But she couldn't help it. She'd simply come too close to losing him. If Cordelia hadn't had that vision…

He glanced out his window, and though he didn't make a sound Buffy knew he winced with the headache he still had, then paled when even that small a reaction made his broken cheekbone throb.

"We could have waited another day," Buffy said, looking out her window for real this time. "You're not up to this, and I don't want to talk to them anyway."

The taxi came to a stop, the driver calling their total over his shoulder, and Buffy felt Giles' hand envelop hers where she clenched the edge of the seat.

"It's time, Buffy," Giles said, softly. "We both must clear the air with them."

Buffy glared at the ugly little building in front of her. "They already know where I stand, Giles. I can't help it if they don't like it."

"Then perhaps it's time for that frontal assault after all," he replied, and the dry humor in his voice made her turn to look at him.

His broken cheekbone was spectacularly bruised, the dark circles under his eyes mute testament to the soul-deep fatigue he hadn't shaken. And the stiff way he sat told her quite clearly that the rest of his injuries were still far from healed. Yet his eyes were laughing at her, and his lips were gently stretched in a small smile.

He squeezed her hand. "I'll be all right, Buffy. We're all going to be fine… in time."

Guilt burned in her gut and her throat closed on all the tears she hadn't let herself shed, for Willow, Riley, Xander, for Giles--even for Anya. They'd paid way too high a price, most of it entirely her fault. She should have known, _should have seen_. Especially Tara, damn it. But that was her load to carry, not Giles'. Buffy scowled and fought the tears down again and managed to nod.

The driver half turned, raising an eyebrow at them, and Giles reached across her and pushed open the door. "Let's get this over with."

Buffy stepped out of the car and waited, trying not to see how slowly Giles was moving as he paid the driver and joined her on the sidewalk. Together they stared up at the dull brown building that housed the Council.

"Not much of a headquarters," Buffy finally said. "No wonder Xander thought they had the wrong place. You'd think, with all the weight they throw around, that the Council would rate something more Ultra Pain in the Ass obvious. Blink, and you'll miss this place."

"You were expecting a neon sign?"

That startled a smile out of her. "Demons 'R' Us? Bright red, with a nifty flashing Slayer logo?"

"I think they tried that in the 70's." Giles put his hand on the small of her back and gently urged her forward.

Buffy hurried up the stoop to get the door. "You're right--too disco." Then she got a look at the boring little office and the boring little brunette sitting behind the boring little desk. "But this place really does need something… I don't know--more Bat Cave expensive gadgets, less Bob Cratchit low income."

"Yes, well," Giles coughed, "no one has ever accused the Council of being conspicuous, much less glamorous."

"Too bad," Buffy sighed, as they crossed the room to the boring little desk. "I'd have liked some gadgets. Well?" The brunette stood. "Not so little," Buffy muttered, staring up at her.

"Miss Summers, Mr. Giles, the Council were expecting you fifteen minutes ago," the woman coolly greeted them. "Come this way."

"Frosty," Buffy said, following. "Sure puts me in my place."

Giles' hand closed on her shoulder, stopping her. Buffy swiveled around and stared up at him, at the harsh, painfully vivid bruising, at the lines made by worry and exhaustion, but most of all at the fierce light in his eyes and the grim, intense frown.

"You are the Slayer," he said sternly. "Your _place_ is to slay--to destroy evil, to fight no matter the pain, to kill no matter the cost. To put yourself in danger and make whatever sacrifice is necessary, every single day that you're skilled enough or fortunate enough to survive. Your _place_ requires a courage, a strength, and a will that precious few others in the entire world have ever attained. There is nobility in your calling and utter supremacy in your mission and your duties. Do not forget, Buffy--don't _ever_ forget who and what you are. And when you walk in that room, don't you dare let _them_ forget."

She had to clear the tightness from her throat, had to breathe deep and blink hard to settle everything in her heart that his words had stirred up. "That's one hell of a pep talk you've got there," she finally managed.

Gently he squeezed her shoulder. "I'm your Watcher. Making sure you're as well armed as possible whenever you go into battle is part of my job."

"Into battle? With the Council?" Buffy grinned. "Really, Giles--I'm not even going to break a sweat."

Giles nodded in approval and gave her a little push in the brunette's direction. "That's my girl," he said softly.

For the first time in weeks, Buffy felt herself relaxing. There were injuries that needed to heal, things that needed to be said, more repercussions to deal with than from anything that had ever happened before--and that was saying something. But she knew what she was doing and where she fit in, and her Watcher and her friends were all behind her. All she had to do now was make sure the Council never screwed things up or got in her way again. Buffy breezed by the brunette. "Never mind--we'll find the way."

Giles was right behind her, down the hall and up the stairs, but they walked into the Council chamber side by side. Buffy scanned the room, catching the eye of each Council member and staring them down, one by one, until the last came forward.

"Miss Summers," the older man rumbled, looking her and Giles over and wincing as if deeply disappointed--or in a great deal of pain. "I am Trevor Dickens, the head of the Council."

"Mister Dickens," Buffy acknowledged. "This is quite a place you've got here. It's really nice that we saved the world again and I could find the time to come visit."

"Indeed," he grumbled. "Such typical American arrogance. Your tenure as the Slayer is rife with the most appalling of mistakes--and this latest fiasco is no exception. You had a spy among you for nearly a year, you allowed _Vlad Dracula_ to kidnap your Watcher, you--

"Did you hear that, Giles?" Buffy interrupted. "He called you my Watcher. Strike rule number two off my list."

"I'm only number two?"

"Well, number one is that whole 'never interfere with me again.' It's kind of logical, don't you think? One, never interfere, two, that includes never messing with my chief source of guidance again, which is namely you. I think Professor Walsh would be proud of that logical progression, don't you?

"Which brings me to number three," she rolled on, turning back to Trevor Dickens. "I expect access as of yesterday to every last scrap of information you've got. _Everything._ I don't care if it's what color the Slayer painted her nails a thousand years ago, I want it made available. Giles and I will decide what's important--not you."

"That is entirely out of the ques--"

"What?" Buffy snapped. "What is it, _Trev_, that makes you think any of this is negotiable? I'm the Slayer, you're the Council. You're here to help me, remember? You sit on your butts in this ugly little house collecting old books and demon census numbers--and keeping it all to yourselves--while my friends and I are the ones out there with our necks on the line. Where are the weekly Council bulletins on demonic activity? Why is there no red phone for me to pick up? Adam was throwing us around like little broken dolls last year and we didn't get word one from you about that spell we finally found. You can't tell me you didn't already know about that. And Wesley had to _hack_into one of your databases to get confirmation of Tara's identity. Who knows how this would have played out if we'd had that information--and your support--sooner?"

"The guidelines and procedures we follow have been forged and honed by the most brilliant of minds for over two thousand years," Trevor said, everything from his posture to his hair stiff with indignation. "What, may I ask, makes _you_ think that you know better than any of those people?"

"Most of them are dead," Buffy shrugged. "I'm the one who's here, now, and I'm telling you what I need to keep the demons in check and me and my friends out of very early graves."

"In check?" Trevor smiled, a mean twisting of his lips. "The way you kept Drusilla in check? Or Angelus, or Spike? Or Faith, who wouldn't have become active in the first place if you hadn't allowed the Master to kill you? The way you allowed Dracula to escape with what was left of the Eshkondan? Really, Miss Summers, you're making a stronger case for our stripping you of your powers than--"

Buffy laughed. "Strip away, Trev. I'll have a _life_ again, and so will all my friends. On the other hand, _you_ will then be stuck with a psychopath for a Slayer."

Giles cleared his throat. "Now might be a good time for me to point out that the Sunnydale Hellmouth remains closed despite the Master's efforts to the contrary, the Mayor's ascension was foiled, the Initiative's misguided and absolutely insane program has been quashed, Adam was obliterated, and, now, there will be no Hellmouth in Edinburgh. If I may also clarify that your alternative to Buffy would in fact be a _jailed_ psychopath for a Slayer? Not much help, I'm afraid. Speaking as the only person in this room to evaluate both Faith and Buffy, I couldn't recommend the switch in any case."

"As if this Council would take your recommendations now," one of the other Council members scoffed.

"Forgotten rule number two already?" Buffy softly asked. Without taking her eyes off Trevor she nodded at the ever-present tea set, where steam still escaped the tea pot resting in the center of the tray. "Aren't you going to offer Giles tea? You should offer Giles tea now. He says that's the one thing we just can't get right on our side of the Atlantic."

A heavy, expectant silence filled the room while she and Trevor stared at each other. His frown deepened and his hard, angry eyes flashed, and as each moment passed Buffy's spirits rose higher and higher. She'd won. He just couldn't admit it yet. Everything else was just so much bluster. So--should she rub it in? Make her point in six-foot-tall neon letters? Satisfying in the short term--extremely satisfying--but... Better not. She was, after all, trying to get these pompous jerks to work with her. She _could_ make it easier on Trev here. Certainly wouldn't hurt.

"The Eshkondan isn't much use to anyone now--it was burned and cracked when we disrupted the ritual," she said, moving to the center table to pour a cup of tea herself. "Tara's dead, of course, and the Count and his right hand vamp had a teensy little falling out over their failure. So Vlad's going to need some time to regroup, although being Dracula and all he'll need a close watch." Buffy glanced at Trevor as she returned to Giles and handed him the cup.

Slowly Trevor nodded. "See to it, Arthur."

And just like that, it was done. Buffy would have grinned like a maniac, if she hadn't been so tired. And if she wasn't still so angry about… "Where's Spike?"

Trevor grimaced. "We've had no word of his whereabouts, and we've had agents looking for him since we first learned he'd disappeared from Sunnydale. I can't even tell you if he stayed in America or returned to Europe with Dracula. That is _highly_ unusual--both for him and for us."

"Find him," Buffy flatly ordered. "But wherever he is, whenever he turns up, _he's mine._"

Trevor's jaw tightened. "You should have killed him when he was--"

_"I know."_

He blinked at her, clearly taken aback that she'd just agreed with him.

"Do you think I don't know I've made some mistakes?" Buffy said fiercely. "Why do you think I finally let Giles bring me here? Because I _need_your resources and your knowledge and yes, sometimes even your guidance. Because sometimes I've got so many vamps and demons in my face that I don't even know there is a big picture, much less what it might be. If you'd pushed me on Spike, I probably would have killed him months ago. Riley would still be walking and Willow would never have been raped and _do you understand _what I'm saying?"

Slowly Trevor relaxed, the stiff spine and even stiffer ego unbending a little. "Our apologies, Miss Summers," he finally replied. "We won't let you down again."

There were a couple of gasps, and one of the other Council members surged angrily forward, but Trevor turned sharply and stopped him in his tracks. "The Slayer was wrong to refuse us--and _we_ were wrong to abandon her," he said sternly. "Neither will happen again."

Obviously not all of the others were completely satisfied--there would definitely be one nice, friendly "chat" about it once she and Giles had left. But Buffy's money was on Trev. It _wouldn't_ happen again, and he would see to it. Maybe there was room for all of them to play in the same sandbox after all.

"Then I believe," Giles quietly broke the silence, "that there's only one other thing we need to discuss today."

"You will of course be reinstated, Rupert," Trevor replied, calmly pouring his own cup of tea. "But I wouldn't expect any back pay if I were you."

"Humor?" Buffy gaped, turning to Giles. "In the Council? You didn't tell me any of them had a sense of humor."

"I didn't know," Giles shrugged, a hint of a smile playing about his lips. For the first time since she'd handed him the cup, he took a sip of his tea. "Ah, excellent. I don't know what happens to Earl Gray at the American border, but it's criminal. Actually, the other matter I had in mind was the whereabouts of Drusilla and Anyanka."

Trevor nodded as he sat on one of the sofas. "Drusilla was spotted leaving Edinburgh, but she evaded our agents just south of the city. As for Anyanka, she has yet to turn up. We will, obviously, continue searching for both."

"Then thank you for the tea," Giles said, "but it's getting late and there are quite a few things for us to do before we return to Sunnydale." He took another long sip before setting the cup down with obvious reluctance.

Buffy extended her hand to Trevor. "We'll be in touch."

He stood and clasped her hand firmly. "As will we, Miss Summers. I'm sure you'll have a safe journey home. As I understand it, we're paying for a very good private plane for you."

"Too much?"

He paused. "Perhaps… but only a little."

He offered a small smile as he released her hand, a truce declared, the peace treaty signed, but Buffy didn't feel any triumph. This breach between them had cost too much. If only she'd forced this confrontation sooner…

_Riley. Willow. Xander. Even Anya and Tara. What might have happened if…_

Somehow Buffy managed a smile of her own, even though grief was choking her. Somehow she managed to turn and put one foot in front of the other and walk out with Giles, calmly, when all she wanted to do was howl and scream until all the hurt and the anger and the frustration and the awful, aching _guilt_were burned away. Somehow, she made it all the way to the street before the first tear slid hotly down her cheek.

Giles' hand settled lightly on her shoulder, and blindly Buffy turned into his embrace. He didn't say a thing, just held her, but Buffy didn't need the words. He was her Watcher, her father in everything but the biology, and her friend. As long as they were both alive, he'd be there to help her bear her burdens--even when he hurt like hell, even when the same guilt was eating away at him. Or maybe, especially then.

And she was the Slayer.

Buffy squared her shoulders, gave him a last, gentle squeeze of thanks, and wiped at her wet cheeks as she stepped back. "Think Trevor will be able to keep them all in line?"

"I think I've never seen you wage a more successful frontal assault."

Buffy cocked her head, considering. "Not even taking it to the Mayor at graduation?"

"No army this time," Giles shrugged. "And not even a single explosive."

"No," Buffy agreed. "I just needed you. Thanks."

Giles raised his hand and flagged another taxi. "Thank me later, when you really do have a red phone and they're calling you three times a day."

"I figured we'd put the phone at your place."

"What a splendid idea," he sighed. "You know, I don't have to return to Sunnydale with you. I'm sure I could find something to do if I remained in London."

"It'll never happen," Buffy shook her head as the taxi pulled up. "You'd miss me way too much. Besides, they finally agreed to rule number two."

"Only number two," he scoffed, opening the car door for her. "And I could get through the day without you, thank you very much. What an insufferable ego."

Buffy paused half way into the car. "Insufferable? For that, you're buying the first round--and probably the second. We're all legal over here, you know."

Giles followed her into the taxi. "Did you miss the part about no back pay? The Queen Vic, please, Albert Square in the East End."

The taxi shot into traffic, and Buffy closed her eyes and let her head fall back to the cushion. She was so damned tired. "If it's any consolation, I don't think I'll make it to the second round. Tell me again why we're having this big dinner out tonight?"

"Because you earned it."

"I didn't earn a thing," she protested, raising her head back up and staring at him in disbelief. "Riley may never walk again, Willow was raped, we came within seconds of losing you, Xander is tearing himself up over Anya, we're _all_ tearing ourselves up over Tara and Spike--and Dracula, Spike _and_ Drusilla walked away arm in arm like some gruesome threesome, with Anya right behind them. I should have--"

"That's enough," Giles said, mildly, but the rebuke stopped her in her tracks anyway. "You stopped Dracula from opening a Hellmouth and you _survived_. We _all_ survived. This is war, Buffy. You know there are risks, that you can be hurt or killed at any moment--and so does everyone who's ever volunteered to help you."

"That doesn't mean it's all right that I didn't protect them."

There it was, her failure put into harsh, angry words, hanging in the darkness of the taxi on a London street. There was no answer to them, no escaping them, no easy way to live with them. She wasn't even sure she could ever allow _any_ of her friends to be on the front line with her again. What if the Council wasn't any help after all? What if someone took Dracula's example and--

"Did you ever stop to think," Giles said, softly, "that every Watcher in the entire history of the order has watched their Slayer die?"

Buffy sucked in a startled, shocked breath. She could only stare at him.

"Even me," he continued, his smile a sad, gentle curl of his lips. "You were killed, Buffy, and I couldn't protect you. I was completely unable to stop your death from happening."

"But Xander brought me back," she blurted.

"That time," Giles nodded, "yes. But there will come a time when something will go wrong--when I won't have all the information I need, when you'll reach for a weapon or support and it won't be there, when your opponent will be faster or smarter or more cunning. It could be any of a thousand thousand things, and all I know for certain is that one day, the evil will win and I will watch you die." He shrugged. "Assuming I won't already be dead."

"Giles," she whispered. Buffy reached for something--anything--to say, but there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. He was right, and she'd always known that anyway. "Giles," she repeated, helplessly, and reached for his hand instead.

He covered both their hands with his other. "It's just a fact, Buffy. One that all Watchers and all Slayers--and anyone who ever helps them--lives with. _Lives_ with. We all know what we're up against. We all know we could die, that we could watch dear friends and loved ones die as well--that somewhere along the way, we won't be able to protect everyone. But that doesn't stop any of us from fighting, and it should never stop us from _living._ Or," he grinned suddenly at her, "from celebrating our victories."

The taste of ashes rose in her throat, and pain ripped through her heart. "This 'victory' came with a really high price."

"It wasn't your fault, Buffy."

Her grip on his hand grew painfully fierce. "I don't know if I'll ever believe that, Giles," she managed.

"Then believe this," he replied, sternly now. "You are a powerful source for good in the world, and you're doing everything you possibly can. Including wrestling the Council back into line, listening to your Watcher, and understanding that the friends who choose to help you know and accept the risks of doing so."

Helplessly she shook her head. "I can't just _accept_ what happened to Willow and Riley. If I'd killed Spike when I--"

"No 'what if's.' Ever. If any of us make a mistake we have to learn what we can from it and move on. But 'what if's' will destroy your confidence and that will kill you faster than anything else. And I would never expect you to become complacent about something like Riley's or Willow's injuries, Buffy. But you won't be honoring the sacrifices your friends make if you let them--if you let your fear of them--stop you from being the Slayer."

"Being the Slayer," Buffy repeated softly. "When I'm in the middle of a fight, I always know what that means. But now--after--when someone's been hurt… It's a lot harder."

"I know. And that's partly why I'm here, Buffy. Not just to prepare you for battle, but to help you recover afterwards as well."

Buffy stared up at him, at the bruises, at the pain, trying to imagine a world without him, where she had to do this all alone, and failing utterly. "But what if you're the one who needs to recover?"

"That's in the job description, too--putting myself at risk, standing next to you on the front line of this war. I believe it's actually under the 'other duties as required' clause."

The wry words washed over her as she sat there in the darkness, listening, watching the city lights flash across his face in ever changing patterns. No matter the shadows, the glare, there was always strength in his eyes--not just pain. And an unwavering commitment. To more than her, as important as she knew she was to him. To the battle she would fight every day of her life. Except it wasn't just her life at stake, was it?

"You'd keep fighting, wouldn't you?" she demanded. "If I died, you'd keep fighting."

"Yes," he said simply. "And so would the others."

Something eased inside her, a little bit of the guilt washing away, the ache in her heart uncoiling enough that she took her first deep breath in what felt like weeks. "You answered my next question before I even had the chance to think it."

"I'm very good at my job."

Slowly Buffy nodded. "So am I."

Three simple words, but they had become everything. She _had_ to be good at her job, or people would die. That part she'd always known. But that her Watcher and her friends voluntarily felt the same level of commitment to the fight that she'd never asked for, never wanted… that realization was new. And more than a little bit humbling.

"Ready for that party now?" Gently Giles squeezed her hand, approval in his soft words.

"Ready to see my friends," she corrected, glancing outside as the taxi jolted to a stop. "I have a few things I want to say to them."

Buffy loved the pub on sight. The Queen Vic was bright and noisy and full of people dancing and eating and laughing and _living_--exactly what she needed. What they all needed, she realized, spotting her friends at two tables pushed together to the right. Giles was right--as usual. Food covered the tables, the drinks were flowing, and everyone had obviously relaxed a few notches from that battle-ready tension they'd all been under.

Willow and Oz shared the head of the table, quiet, close, their twined fingers resting on the table between their plates, eyes mostly for each other. It felt so right, seeing them together like that again. No more barriers, no more pretense, no more psychotic she-wolf groupies or wicked witches interfering, just two people choosing each other despite--or maybe because of--everything that had happened to them. Buffy had no idea where they would go or what they would do during the two weeks they were taking off to explore Europe, and even less of an idea what would happen when they returned to Sunnydale. For now, it was enough just to see them happy and healing.

Xander and Wesley sat along the length of the table, talking across a space between them, but as Buffy watched Cordelia came back to the table, a pitcher of something amber and frothy in her hands. She took the seat between them, filling their drinks, passing the pitcher, drawing Xander and Wesley, Willow and Oz out of their serious conversations until the five of them were animatedly debating something. So much strength there now, in all of them, and all ready and willing to go to the wall for each other. And for her. Could she have asked for better friends?

At the far end Angel sat with his back to the wall, watchful and cautious as ever, but he had his chair tipped back on the two rear legs and was grinning at something the waitress said as she swapped out full plates of sandwiches and fries for the obviously kicked ones. The others dove into the food, smiling and eating and sitting there as if the last year or two had never happened, and Buffy wished with all her heart that it would always be like this between them. That no matter what, they would always find their ways back to each other.

There were empty spaces at the table, though, that would never be filled again. Except, maybe, with regrets. She'd missed her chance to get to know Anya, to help her choose a different path, and she'd obviously never known Tara at all. And Riley… Angel's chair thumped to the floor as he doubled over, laughing at something an obviously satisfied Cordelia had said, and a wave of sadness filled Buffy. She and Riley had never had a chance. Giving Angel up had marked her, in ways she was only beginning to understand. She'd never truly opened her heart to Riley, never let him all the way in. And now… it was too late. He'd be in San Antonio by the time she got back, at a military hospital for the next six to nine months. In Sunnydale Time, that was an eternity. There would be no chance to make things right between them while she fought vampires and he fought to recover. And even if he made it all the way back to his feet, he'd never be whole enough to hold his own in her world again. In Slayer Reality, that was… unacceptable. She could never allow it, for his sake as well as hers.

Spike. Drusilla. Dracula. When she saw them again, she'd make them pay.

Giles' hand settled lightly on her shoulder. "Shall we join our friends?"

"In a minute," Buffy sighed. "I just want to watch them… being _normal_. They look like everyone else here, normal and happy and having a good time. Just… give me another minute. Then I'll be ready. Then I'll be able to talk Slayer to them again, to turn them back into something _not_normal."

Angel spotted them then, waving them over, and everyone else at the table turned to find them. Buffy stared, hard, memorizing the moment. These people, this place, this chance to be together before the next crisis struck. These people were her family. The ones who made her life bearable.

"I need to tell them how much they mean to me," Buffy said. "I could never do this--_be_ this--without them."

"They know, Buffy. They know."

"Maybe. But I need to be sure. I can't take things like that for granted any more, Giles."

Giles' hand slid to the small of her back, and gently he prodded her forward. "Then what are we waiting for?"

"Just one more thing," she said, turning back to him. "You know you weren't really number two, right?"

"Yes, Buffy. I know that, too."

"Then let's go have that party," Buffy smiled. "You've got a couple of rounds to buy."

Epilogue

_A Paris rail yard_

_One week later_

Spike took one last, long suckle at the cool, smooth neck and slowly stood, licking the blood from his chin and languidly reaching to the side table for a cigar with one hand, his lighter with the other. He left the bed and strolled naked through the darkened sleeper car, lighting the cigar, inhaling the rich smoke and tossing the lighter aside. He should leave. He'd waited long enough--maybe too long. Spike stopped in front of the window, twitching the heavy fabric aside, staring out at the yard as he smoked and brooded. Scant light from the crescent moon barely broke the thick, heavy darkness, silvering only a line here or there of the rows of tracks and cars and the scurrying laborers, but neither the one he expected nor the enemy he avoided came into view.

Enough, he decided. Time to go collect the rest of his… _inheritance_.

Spike stabbed at the call button and shrugged into the black silk robe, grinning with ridiculous pleasure at the feel of the sensuous fabric against his skin. He didn't bother to turn when the door to his other private car slid quietly open, merely pulled the cigar from his mouth long enough to order the body removed and the cars hooked to the next engine heading east to Russia.

He sank into the overstuffed armchair, wondering, listening absently as one lackey placed the call and the other headed for the bed.

"We'll be connected in one hour," the man calmly reported, "and can expect to depart one hour after that."

Spike waved him back to the rest of his duties as the other gathered the body in his arms and both left him alone. Two final hours, and if she hadn't…

_Well, well, well._

"Hello, pet," he said softly. "Come to see me off?"

"Spike," Drusilla pouted, emerging slowly from the blackness at the far end of the car. "You wouldn't _really_ leave without me."

"Wouldn't I?" he mocked, hearing the tiny doubt in her voice and reveling in it. He beckoned her closer. Something sparked in her eyes--she knew, and wasn't entirely pleased--but that didn't stop her from crossing the room. Spike savored every step, the sight of _her_ coming to _him_ the sweetest one of her he'd ever seen.

Spike took a long, deep drag of the cigar and blew the smoke out, watching it drift round her, taking in everything. No more silk gowns and expensive perfume, just dark, rugged clothes and the smell of the street, the gauntness of her face telling him exactly how little she'd fed while traveling to stay under the radar.

Spike laid the cigar aside and stood, close, watching her nostrils flare as she caught the scent of his last meal. "Well?"

"No more party," she sighed, leaning into him and staring at his lips.

He licked them for her and her mouth dropped open. "I warned him."

Drusilla raised her hands to his shoulders and her eyes to his, waiting. "He knows, now. Everyone knows."

"That she's stronger than the others?"

Her hungry glance dropped back to his mouth. "That _you_are."

Him. Spike. _William the Bloody._ And _everyone_ knew it. _Everyone!_ No more crypts, no more scavenging, no more waiting, _no more_._Ever._ Spike threw his head back and laughed, exultant, letting her slide the robe from his shoulders, arching into the wetness of her clever mouth and the scoring of her nimble fingers as she followed the robe to the floor and dropped to her knees. She nuzzled his rampant arousal, flicking her tongue along his length, and Spike clenched his fists in her hair and transformed and yanked her back up to her feet. He bit her hard on the mouth, drawing blood, clawed her clothes from her, and threw her naked and bruised across the bed.

She rose to hands and knees on the sheets slowly, eyes dark and wary and hungry.

He stood over her. "It won't be like it was before," he growled, commanding, warning.

Drusilla arched her back and smiled. "No. It will be better."

Spike waited, staring, utterly still, until her smile and her confidence faltered, until the first hints of fear and unease shimmered through her wild, fathomless eyes. He took her then, savage and cruel, shoving her face down, marking her, using her as he'd never even dreamed he could.

And she let him. Anything he wanted, everything he wanted. "Spike," she moaned into the sheets, begging, writhing beneath him.

He bit sharply at her ear and thrust harder. "I would've left without you, pet. Never forget it. We do things _my_way now."

"Black as spilled blood," Drusilla crooned brokenly. "William the Bloody. Everyone knows. _Everyone._"

Jagged, biting, primal orgasm ripped through him and he ground himself wildly into her, loosing his passions, clawing higher, nearly breaking her in two, ruling _her_, claiming _her_, and she was right--it was better than anything he'd ever had with her before.

"Everyone," he softly, viciously repeated, lying sprawled and spent across her.

Drusilla shuddered. "Yes."

Riley knew. He'd learned it first. Then Willow. She'd learned it best. Spike snickered.

His sire. Vlad Dracula. Even the Slayer.

_Especially_ the Slayer.

They would fear him now. _Everyone_. Life was short, death even quicker. But suffering could last forever.

He'd made sure of that.


End file.
